BUCHANANS 
WIFE 


JUSTUS 

-MILES  * 
FORMAN 


OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 


[See  p   124 

FARING   TOOK   THE   CRl'MI'LED   WHITE    PAPER   FROM   THE 
WOMAN'S  SLACK  HAND  AND  READ  IT  SWIFTLY" 


BUCHANAN'S  WIFE 


A  NOVEL 


BY 

JUSTUS  MILES  FORMAN 

AUTHOR  OF 
"THE  ISLAND  OF   ENCHANTMENT" 


ILLUSTRATED    BY 
WILL    GREFE 


HARPER  8r   BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 

NEW  YORK  AND   LONDON 
1906 


Copyright,  1905,  1906,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  reserved. 
Published  August,  1906. 


TO 

E .   I .  W. 


2129511 


CONTENTS 


BOOK  I 

CHAP.  PAGB 

I.  HERBERT  BUCHANAN 3 

II.  FARING 14 

III.  THE  FIRST  CARD 21 

IV.  IN  THE  ROOM  WHERE  THE  OLD  GODS  SAT     .     .  41 


BOOK   II 

I.  THE  NEXT  DAY 71 

II.  THE  Two  WAYS  OF  LOVING 84 

III.  BEATRIX  CONTENDS  WITH  DEVILS 99 

IV.  IN  SEARCH  OP  SUNSHINE 112 

V.  ARABELLA  SUMMONS 123 

VI.  A  LAD'S  LOVE — AND  A  VERY  TIRED  OLD  MAN     .  128 

VII.  FOUND  DEAD 134 

VIII.  BEFORE  PARADISE  GATES  COMETH  PURGATORY     .  143 

IX.  BUT  WE  WIN  TO  THE  GATES  AT  LAST       .     .     .  153 

X.  THE  HOUSE  OF  CLOUD  AND  SUNBEAM    ....  161 

XI.  STAMBOLOF  GOES 171 

BOOK   III 

I.  A  LITTLE  GRAY  TRAMP  ARRIVES 181 

II.  THE  ROOM  OF  THE  OLD  GODS  AGAIN     ....  202 

v 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

III.  THE  MAN  WITH  THE  BLUE  EYES 216 

IV.  BEATRIX  LOCKS  HER  DOOR 222 

V.  JOHNNIE  AND  KANSAS  MAKE  THEIR  PLANS     .     .  231 

VI.  KANSAS  MEETS  WITH  A  MISADVENTURE      .     .     .  237 

VII.  Two  GUILTY  SOULS  TOGETHER 248 

VIII.  THE  LAST  MOVE  IN  THE  GAME 261 

IX.  LITTLE  JOHNNIE  GOES — BUT  NOT  ALONE    .     .     .  275 

X.  THE  LAST  WORD.  282 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  FARING  TOOK  THE  CRUMPLED  WHITE  PAPER  FROM 
THE  WOMAN'S  SLACK  HAND  AND  READ  IT 

SWIFTLY" Frontispiece 

"BUCHANAN  CAME  OUT  FROM  THE  HOUSE  AND 

STOOD    FOR   A    MOMENT   REGARDING   THE   TWO "     Facing  p.     IO 

"'l  HAVE  YOU  COVERED.  COME  HERE  I' "  ...   "    48 
'"BEG  PARDON,  MA'AM  .  .  .  MR.  BUCHANAN  CAN'T 

BE  FOUND,  MA'AM'" "    76 

'"NOTHING  WILL  FIND  ITS  WAY  INTO  OUR  GAR- 
DEN TO  HURT  US  OR  ROB  US  OF  OUR  HAPPI- 
NESS*"    "  158 

"SHE  SAT  LOOKING  AT  THE  MAN  .  .  .  SPINNING 

SWIFT,  DESPERATE  PLANS" X86 

"SHE'LL  DO  ANYTHING  TO  KEEP  IT  QUIET,'  HE 

SAID,  NODDING" 234 

"THE  WOMAN  .  .  .  DROPPED  ON  HER  KNEES  BE- 
SIDE THE  CHAIR"  .  "  286 


BOOK    I 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 


HERBERT   BUCHANAN 

"  IT  has  just  occurred    to  me,"  said  Miss  Trevor, 

1  "that,  like  the  young  person  in  the  poem,  we  are 
seven — only  seven.  I  thought  Mr.  Buchanan  said  we 
were  to  be  eight.  Who  and  where  is  the  eighth?" 

"Harry  Faring  is  the  eighth,"  said  old  Arabella 
Crowley.  "He  is  to  come  down  to-day,  I  believe,  in 
time  for  dinner.  For  some  reason  or  other  he  couldn't 
come  before." 

Miss  Trevor  set  down  her  teacup  with  some  haste, 
and  she  stared  at  the  elder  woman  with  wide,  excited 
eyes,  and  her  lips* pursed  slowly  together  as  if  in  a 
soundless  whistle.  oY  amazement. 

"Harry  FaiijigJ"  She  said,  under  her  breath.  "Oh, 
I  say! — Harry  Faring!" 

M.  Stambolof  sat  forward  in  his  chair  with  sudden 
interest. 

"Faring?"  he  asked,  in  his  old,  careful  English. 
"  Young  Faring  ?  Ah,  now  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  that 
he  is  coming  down.  We  became  friends  some  months 
ago.  He  is  a  young  man  of  parts.  Yes,  I  am  exceed- 
ingly glad  that  he  is  to  come  here.  I  wish — "  He 

3 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

stopped  suddenly  when  he  saw  that  neither  of  the 
women  was  listening  to  him,  and  for  an  instant  his 
quick  eyes  dwelt  upon  that  odd,  significant  gaze  which 
held  between  them;  then  he  looked  down  once  more 
and  began  stirring  his  tea  in  silence.  He  was  not  a 
curious  man. 

"I  say,"  said  Miss  Trevor  again,  still  half  under  her 
breath,  staring  across  at  old  Arabella  Crowley,  "is  that 
quite — wise,  you  know — having  Harry  Faring  here?" 

"No,  it  isn't!"  said  old  Arabella,  crossly.  "It  is 
very  far  from  wise,  since  you  ask,  but  it  is  also  no 
affair  of  ours,  my  dear.  For  Heaven's  sake,  let  us  re- 
main out  of  it.  We  all  have  troubles  of  our  own — at 
least,  I  have."  She  turned  about  towards  Stambolof. 
"  Have  you  ever  met  Mr.  Faring  ?"  she  asked.  "  He  is 
coming  here  to-day." 

M.  Stambolof  repeated  his  unheeded  remark. 

"We  became  friends  some  months  ago,"  he  said. 
"I  like  him.  He  is  a  young  man  of  parts — also  of 
strength.  Few  young  men  are  strong.  I  expect  that 
is  because  they  are  too  happy.  Yes,  I  shall  be  exceed- 
ingly glad  to  see  young  Faring  once  more." 

Ajid  just  then  Beatrix  Buchanan  came  out  through 
one  of  the  long  windows  which  gave  upon  the  terrace. 

"Ah,  here  you  are!"  she  said;  "having  your  tea  in 
peace.  You're  very  wise,  you  know.  It's  much  nicer 
here  than  inside.  Haven't  we  a  magnificent  outlook 
from  our  terrace,  Stambolof?  At  this  time  of  the  day 
the  sea  yonder  is  almost  always  just  like  that — a  silver 
line  against  the  sky." 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Arabella  Crowley,  in  a  grudging 
tone — "oh  yes,  it's  very  fine,  I  dare  say,  very  fine  in- 
deed. Hardly  up  to  Red  Rose,  of  course,  but  very 
well  in  its  way." 

4 


HERBERT    BUCHANAN 

Mrs.  Buchanan  laughed,  for  she  was  fond  of  the  grim 
old  woman.  She  called  her  "Aunt  Arabella,"  as  did 
almost  every  one  who  knew  her  well,  and  she  began 
to  argue  in  pretended  indignation  the  relative  beauties 
of  the  two  places.  But  the  Russian,  Stambolof,  who 
stood  a  little  apart,  leaning  against  the  outer  balustrade 
of  the  terrace,  watched  her  silently,  and  his  still,  ex- 
pressionless face  softened  for  an  instant  with  some- 
thing which  might  have  been  pity.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  the  mantle  of  melancholy  which  hung  always 
upon  this  young  woman,  and  which  had  first  attracted 
him  to  her,  was  just  now  much  more  apparent  than 
usual — that  the  melancholy  had,  for  the  hour  at  least, 
turned  to  bitterness,  and  he  was  very  sorry;  for,  though 
he  counted  his  friends  upon  the  fingers  of  one  hand, 
he  had  taken  a  genuine  liking  to  Beatrix  Buchanan. 
It  seemed  to  him  rather  unusually  pitiful  that  a  woman 
so  obviously  made  for  sunlight  should  be  compelled 
to  pass  her  life  in  the  shadows.  He  was  himself  a  man 
pierced  and  wrung  by  deathless  grief,  and  he  knew  too 
well  what  sorrow  was,  to  pass  it  lightly  over  when  he 
saw  it  in  another. 

Mrs.  Buchanan  walked  the  length  of  the  terrace  and 
stood  for  a  moment  with  her  back  turned,  looking  down 
over  the  great  landward  sweep  of  lawn  and  gardens 
where,  between  rows  of  pointed  firs,  the  drive  curved 
in  from  the  public  highroad  far  beyond.  Stambolof's 
grave  eyes  were  upon  her  still,  and  he  frowned  when  he 
saw  the  moment's  droop  of  her  shoulders,  and  that  her 
hands  always  twisted  restlessly  together  and  could  not 
be  still. 

"Mr. — Faring — Harry  Faring — is  coming  to  us  to- 
day," she  said,  turning  back.  "He  should  be  here  by 
this  time,  I  think."  She  pulled  out  a  tiny  jewelled 

5 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

watch  from  her  girdle  and  frowned  down  at  it.  "  He  was 
to  come  by  the  five -o'clock  train.  I  don't  see —  He 
should  be  here  now."  She  turned  her  head  once  more 
towards  the  fir-bordered  drive,  and  the  shadows  be- 
neath her  eyes  seemed  to  deepen  and  darken  until  there 
were  dark  circles  there. 

"1  dare  say  the  train  is  a  bit  late,"  said  Arabella 
Crowley.  "  It  often  is.  Besides,  he  has  heaps  of  time 
before  dinner  —  three  hours."  She  laughed  gently. 
"Dinner  is  the  sole  matter  of  any  great  importance," 
she  said.  "If  you  arrive  anywhere  in  time  for  dinner, 
all  is  well.  If  you  don't,  you  might  better  have  stopped 
away.  Wait  until  you're  five  and  fifty,  my  dear,  and 
you  will  wake  up  each  morning  thanking  God  for  an- 
other day  with  dinner  in  it." 

"That  might  well  depend  upon  the  dinner,  I  should 
think,"  submitted  Stambolof.  "I  am  appalled  at  the 
thought  of  what  tragedy  a  life  like  yours  might  so  easily 
contain." 

"I  never  go  anywhere,"  insisted  Mrs.  Crowley, 
"where  I'm  not  sure  about  the  dinners.  I  am  too  old 
to  be  foolhardy." 

Beatrix  Buchanan  gave  a  little,  absent  smile — but 
those  eyes  of  hers  wandered  ever  towards  the  great 
slopes  landward,  and  the  fir-bordered  drive. 

"  I  suppose  that  might  be  twisted  into  a  sort  of  com- 
pliment to  my  housekeeping,"  she  said,  "or  at  least  to 
my  cook.  Thank  you,  Aunt  Arabella!"  She  turned 
away  with  a  quick  sigh.  "  I  expect  I  must  go  in  to  the 
others,"  said  she.  "They'll  think  I'm  not  civil."  And, 
as  she  went  towards  the  window,  little  Miss  Trevor  who 
had  been  sitting  quite  silent,  sulking,  as  it  were,  over 
old  Arabella's  reproof  of  a  few  moments  before,  moved 
after  her,  slipping  her  hand  into  the  elder  woman's  arm. 

6 


HERBERT    BUCHANAN 

"I'll  go  too,"  she  said.  "I  expect  they're  talking 
scandal  in  there,  and  I  want  to  hear  it." 

Then,  when  the  two  had  disappeared,  the  other  two 
people  left  on  the  terrace  sat  for  a  little  time  in  silence 
looking  after  them.  It  was  Arabella  Crowley  who  at 
length  spoke. 

"Stambolof,"  she  said,  "you  are  a  man  of  sorrows, 
and  consequently  you  know  a  great  deal.  Tell  me  " 
— she  waved  a  hand  towards  the  open  window — "can 
sorrow  do  all  that?"  The  Russian's  masklike  face, 
scored  and  seamed  and  hollowed  by  grief,  twisted  into 
a  wry  smile. 

"You  are  pleased  to  be  cryptic,  dear  lady,"  said 
he.  "  Can  sorrow  do  what  ?" 

But  old  Arabella's  methods  were  direct. 

"Nonsense!"  she  said,  rudely.  "You  know  quite 
well  what  I  mean.  Don't  beat  about  the  bush,  Stam- 
bolof. You  know  I  hate  it.  If  we  two  old  people 
cannot  speak  frankly  together,  who  can? — I  mean 
Beatrix  Buchanan  and  the  amazing  change  that  has 
come  over  her  in  these  past  two  years — since  her  mar- 
riage, in  fact.  You  see  what  she  is  now.  Well,  as 
girl,  two  years  ago,  she  was  something  so  amazingly 
different  that  I  cannot  express  it  at  all." 

"She  can  hardly  have  been  more  beautiful  at  that 
time,"  said  the  man.  "She  is  to-day  almost  as  beau- 
tiful as  a  woman  can  be." 

"No,  no!"  said  Mrs.  Crowley.  "She  was  not  more 
beautiful.  She  was  less  so,  I  should  think.  She  was 
just  an  ordinary,  thoroughly  commonplace  girl  of 
good  birth  and  breeding  and  position.  There  were 
scores  like  her,  and  scores  more  interesting  in  every 
way,  though  I  suppose  they  were  less  pleasing  to  the 
eye.  She  looked  like  that  Rosetti  thing:  The  Blessed 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

Damozel,  or  whoever  it  is,  leaning  over  the  gold  bar 
of  heaven  (why  do  they  have  gold  bars  in  heaven  ?) 
and  thinking  about  all  sorts  of  romantic  mysteries; 
whereas  she  never  thought  of  any  mystery  beyond  her 
clothes.  Well,  that  is  what  she  was — just  a  healthy 
young  beauty  and  nothing  more.  Then  they  sold  her 
to  Buchanan — "  The  Russian  frowned  and  made  a 
little,  inaudible  exclamation.  "And  now  —  now  she 
is  what  you  see!  Can  sorrow  do  all  that,  Stambolof  ? 
Of  course  she  is  unhappy  with  Buchanan.  Any  one 
would  be.  He  is  a  beast." 

The  Russian  nodded  his  head  slowly,  and  that  still 
face  of  his  softened  again  for  a  moment,  as  it  had  done 
before. 

"Sorrow  and  one  other  thing,  dear  lady,"  said  he. 

Old  Arabella  drew  a  quick  sigh. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "Yes,  I  expect  it's  that.  I  ex- 
pect I  knew  it  was  that  all  the  time,  but  I  wanted  you 
to  say  it.  This  Harry  Faring  who  is  to  come  here  to- 
day, I  am  afraid  she  has  been  in  love  with  him  almost  all 
the  two  years  of  her  marriage.  They  had  some  sort 
of  boy  and  girl  affair  long  ago — nothing  at  all  serious, 
I  fancy,  not  with  Beatrix,  anyhow — but  Harry  had 
been  away  in  Africa  for  a  year  or  more  when  she  mar- 
ried. Why  he  should  have  been  asked  here  this  week 
I  cannot  think.  It  seems  to  me  most  rash.  I  know 
they  have  seen  almost  nothing  of  each  other  since  her 
marriage.  Yes,  it  seems  to  me  very  rash.  Beatrix  is 
much  too  nervous  to  run  risks,  and  she's  desperately 
unhappy,  poor  child!  I'm  fond  of  Harry  Faring,  but 
I  wish  he  were  not  coming  here  just  now.  Where 
was  I?  Oh  yes!  I  was  just  saying  that  Harry  was 
away  in  Africa  exploring  something  when  Beatrix 
married." 

8 


HERBERT    BUCHANAN 

"And  then?"  said  the  Russian,  when  Mrs.  Crowley 
paused.  "Then?" 

"Why,  then,"  said  Arabella,  "when  she  married  and 
found  what  a  brute  Buchanan  was,  I  expect  she  turned 
back  upon  her  old  affair  with  Faring  and  began  to 
idealize  that,  and  to  paint  it  up  in  pretty  mother-of- 
pearl  rainbow  colors.  That  would  be  like  a  woman." 

Old  Arabella  shook  her  wise,  white  head. 

"It's  a  bit  of  a  shock,  Stambolof,"  she  said,  "this 
plunging  into  marriage.  It's  a  bit  of  a  shock  to  a 
young  girl,  especially  when  the  plunge  must  be  made 
with  a  man  for  whom  the  girl  has  never  felt  the  slight- 
est spur  of  passion.  She  has  been — unless  she's  one 
of  these  ultra-modern,  neurotic  young  creatures  who 
know  about  everything  long  before  they  experience  it — 
she's  been  a  child,  practically,  an  ignorant  child.  Then 
all  at  once  she's  made  a  woman.  Oh,  it's  no  light 
thing!  Think  of  her  rage  and  resentment  and  despair 
when  she  finds  out  what  it  all  means — this  girl  who 
has  married  a  man  she  doesn't  love — and  finds  out 
what  it  might  mean  if  she  had  married  the  other  man, 
the  one  she  did  care  for!  When  I  think  of  all  that,  I 
am  amazed  at  the  amount  of  patient,  long-suffering 
virtue  I  see  about  me.  It  is  wonderful." 

"You  put  me  in  mind,"  said  the  Russian,  "of  a 
story  I  read  a  long  time  ago — a  French  story.  I  have 
forgotten  who  wrote  it.  It  may  have  been  a  great 
man.  I  have  no  memory.  The  story  was  about  a 
man  who  married  a  girl  practically  from  the  convent, 
but,  oddly  enough,  he  happened  to  have  fallen  in  love 
with  her  before  the  marriage.  More  oddly  still,  he 
was  very  wise,  and  he  realized  the  truth  of  what  you 
have  just  been  saying,  and  he  made  an  experiment — 
I  might  explain  that  he  was  no  longer  very  young. 

9 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

A  young  man  could  not  have  done  the  thing.  On  the 
wedding-night  he  handed  his  bride  to  the  door  of  her 
chamber,  and  kissed  her  finger-tips.  He  did  not  even 
kiss  her  cheek.  He  pointed  out  to  her  that  the  door 
could  be  bolted  from  the  inside,  and  bade  her  good- 
night. She  seemed  a  bit  surprised  and  more  than  a 
bit  relieved.  Then  this  man  set  in,  day  by  day,  to 
make  his  wife  fall  in  love  with  him,  and  he  had  had 
long  experience  to  teach  him  how.  He  brought  her 
flowers  each  morning,  he  rode  with  her,  he  flirted  with 
her.  He  made  love  to  her — but  not  too  much.  And 
every  night  he  kissed  her  fingers  at  the  door  of  her 
chamber  and  bade  her  good-night.  Eh,  he  was  wise!" 

"Well?"  demanded  Arabella  Crowley,  sitting  up. 
"  Well  ?  Get  on!  How  did  it  end  ?" 

M.  Stambolof  emitted  a  little,  gentle  laugh. 

"After  about  a  fortnight  of  this,"  said  he,  "the 
bride  knocked  on  her  husband's  door  with  a  hair-brush 
one  night  and  said  she  was  afraid." 

Herbert  Buchanan  came  out  from  the  house  and 
stood  for  a  moment  regarding  the  two  with  that 
peculiar,  nervous  twitching  of  the  eyebrows  which  was 
habitual  with  him  and  which  gave  him  the  appearance 
of  being  constantly  annoyed. 

"What  are  you  two  laughing  about?"  he  demanded. 
"You  seem  to  be  having  a  very  gay  time  here  all  by 
yourselves." 

"Stambolof  is  telling  me  stories,"  explained  old 
Arabella  Crowley.  "French  stories,  too.  I  shouldn't 
have  believed  him  capable  of  them." 

Buchanan  made  the  brief,  mirthless  sound  which 
passed  with  him  for  laughter. 

"Stambolof,"  he  said,  "if  you  are  becoming  a  chat- 
terbox, I'm  done  with  you.  All  is  over  between  us. 

10 


BUCHANAN     CAME    OUT     FROM    THE    HOUSE    AND    STOOD    FOR    A 
MOMENT    REGARDING    THE    TWO" 


HERBERT    BUCHANAN 

The  reason  Stambolof  and  I  have  become  such  cronies 
in  so  short  a  time,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Crowley,  "is  that 
we  have  in  common  an  illimitable  capacity  for  silence. 
I  don't  have  to  talk  to  Stambolof,  nor  he  to  me.  We 
sit  opposite  to  each  other  in  my  study,  and  smoke  and 
drink  brandy  for  an  entire  evening  without  a  word. 
And  in  the  small  hours  we  part  on  the  best  of  terms. 
If  he  has  become  a  gossip  I  shall  cut  my  throat.  Life 
will  have  no  further  joys  for  me.  I  don't  take  on  new 
friends  easily." 

And  that  was  very  true.  Buchanan  did  not  make 
friends  easily.  It  might  fairly  be  said  that  he  did  not 
make  them  at  all,  for  his  few  silent  evenings  with  Stam- 
bolof counted  for  nothing.  The  men  had  little  in  com- 
mon save  the  natural  tendency  of  each  to  silence.  There 
was  no  true  understanding  or  sympathy  between  them. 
Buchanan  went  through  life  alone.  He  was  not  a 
brute  or  a  beast.  Arabella  Crowley  had  wronged  him 
there  as  did  every  one  else.  He  was  an  unfortunate 
product  of  the  atrocious  mismating  to  which  the  hu- 
man race  is  addicted.  His  father  had  been  a  Scots- 
Welsh  scientist,  a  cold  man,  narsn  and  ascetic,  who 
had  married,  as  such  are  wont  to  do,  a  young  Italian 
girl  all  smiles  and  softness  and  song  and  instability. 
The  Italian  died  as  genuinely  crushed  as  if  by  the 
weight  of  a  glacier,  but  before  she  died  she  had  the 
misfortune  to  bring  into  the  world  a  son.  And  this 
son  grew  up  to  manhood  with  two  natures  warring 
within  him.  Unhappily,  the  Scottish -Welsh  was  up- 
permost and  outermost.  None  ever  knew  that  there 
was  a  desperately  shy  sweetness  inside  the  man.  No 
one  could  have  known.  Indeed,  by  the  time  he  mar- 
ried, it  was  all  but  dead.  There  may  have  been 
women  who  could,  even  then,  have  saved  it,  had  they 

ii 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

known  —  nursed  and  called  and  petted  it  into  health 
— but  Beatrix  Buchanan  was  drinking  bitterness  and 
eating  sorrow  just  then,  so  that  the  last  of  the  Italian 
blood  turned  chill,  and  Buchanan  became  what  he 
was,  a  silent  misanthrope,  a  gloom-enfolded  dreamer 
of  dreams,  a  recluse  the  gates  to  whose  heart  and  soul 
were  closed  and  barred — "No  Trespassing"  writ  large 
across  them. 

Still,  as  has  been  said,  old  Arabella  wronged  him. 
He  was  not  a  brute.  He  had  come  of  a  long  line  of 
gentlemen,  and  the  ordinary  instincts  of  his  class  were 
his  laws.  He  never  ill-treated  his  wife,  save  perhaps 
in  marrying  her,  and  there,  it  is  probable,  he  had  some 
desperate  hope  of  snatching  happiness  in  the  face  of 
his  God ;  but  he  was  often  impatient  with  her,  and  some- 
times more  cruel  than  he  realized.  Without  doubt  he 
did  his  best,  poor  as  that  was.  Fate  had  been  against 
him  from  the  first. 

Even  in  externals  he  was  oddly  repellent.  He  was 
not  quite  an  ugly  man;  given  a  different  nature,  he 
might  have  been  rather  handsome,  but  his  natural 
gloom,  and  the  almost  wholly  inactive  life  he  led,  had 
left  him  sallow  and  lean — lean  almost  to  the  point  of 
emaciation;  and,  as  has  been  said,  he  had  a  nervous 
habit  of  twitching  his  eyebrows  constantly  when  he 
spoke,  as  if  he  were  angry.  He  was  of  middle  height, 
with  dark  eyes,  which  were  too  restless  and  shifting, 
and  straight  black  hair.  He  had,  shortly  before  this 
time,  let  his  mustache  and  beard  grow,  the  latter 
trimmed  to  a  short  point,  and  the  effect  was  unpleas- 
ing — rather  absurdly  Mephistophelian. 

Altogether,  the  impression  which  he  made  upon 
those  about  him  was  of  a  hard  man,  unsympathetic 
to  the  joys  or  sorrows  of  others,  self-centred,  gloomy, 

12 


HERBERT    BUCHANAN 

and  melancholic,  with  that  odd  touch  of  malice  which 
is  found  in  cripples,  or  all  who  are  deformed.  And 
this  was  a  fairly  accurate  portrait  of  the  man.  He 
was,  in  truth,  all  these  things — and  little  else.  What 
the  world,  in  judging  him,  did  not  take  into  considera- 
tion, was  the  combination  of  forces  which  had  made  him 
what  he  was.  The  world  seldom  does  that;  but  in  this 
case  it  happens  to  be  of  some  importance,  because  it 
throws  at  least  a  faint  gleam  of  light  on  the  thing  Bu- 
chanan did  during  the  night  which  followed  Harry 
Faring's  arrival  at  Buchanan  Lodge. 


II 

FARING 

FARING'S  train  was  very  late  indeed — there  had 
been  an  accident  on  the  line,  it  appeared — so  late 
that,  by  the  time  he  arrived  at  the  Lodge,  every  one 
was  dressing  for  dinner,  and  there  was  only  the  butler 
to  greet  him  and  make  his  hostess's  excuses. 

He  dressed  at  once,  with  that  unusual  quickness 
which  is  characteristic  of  all  men  who  spend  much  of 
their  lives  in  travel,  and  who  have,  perforce,  to  make 
hasty  toilets,  and,  when  he  had  finished,  left  his  room, 
thinking  that  he  would  have  time  for  a  cigarette  on 
the  terrace  before  the  other  guests  were  down.  But  at 
the  head  of  the  stairs  he  halted  suddenly,  for  some  one 
was  approaching  along  the  dimly  lighted  upper  hall, 
and,  oddly,  he  knew  by  the  very  sound  of  her  move- 
ment, before  he  raised  his  eyes,  who  the  woman  was. 

Mrs.  Buchanan  saw  him  at  the  same  moment,  and 
stopped  dead.  She  said,  "Harry — Harry!"  twice,  in 
a  strange  little  voice,  and  then  came  very  slowly  for- 
ward and  gave  him  her  hand. 

"You're  very — brown  and — thin,  Harry,"  she  said, 
as  one  who  does  not  heed  what  she  is  saying.  And 
Faring  said,  stupidly: 

"  Yes ! — Yes !  isn't  it  ? "  Inwardly  he  was  filled  with 
a  hot  anger  at  himself  for  that  his  hand,  which  held 
hers,  shook  and  jumped  and  could  not  be  steadied.  And 

14 


FARING 

he  was  full  of  a  dismayed  amazement,  too,  that  her 
presence  should  so  rob  him  of  his  self-control — so  set 
him  to  throbbing  and  tingling.  He  had  thought  him- 
self very  strong. 

Then,  for  a  moment,  neither  of  them,  it  appeared, 
could  think  of  anything  more  to  say.  Only  Faring's 
fingers  unclosed  stiffly  and  the  woman's  hand  dropped 
to  her  side.  At  last  he  said,  looking  her  in  the  eyes 
there  in  that  half-light : 

"  Why  did  you  ask  me  here,  Betty  ?  You — shouldn't 
have.  It  would  have  been  better  for — both  of  us  if  you 
hadn't." 

"I  know,  Harry,  I  know,"  she  said,  in  a  whisper, 
touching  his  arm.  "Oh,  I  know.  Harry —  Well,  it 
wasn't  my  fault.  Herbert  insisted." 

"Buchanan!"  cried  the  man.  "Buchanan  wanted 
me  to  come  here?  Impossible!" 

"You  don't  know  him,  Harry,"  she  said,  with  a 
little,  weary  head-shake.  "He's — he  is  cruel — mali- 
cious. He  wanted  to  watch  us  here  together.  Oh,  he's 
more  malicious  than  you  could  understand !  It  amuses 
him  to  torture  things — to  torture  me,  for  choice." 

Faring  turned  his  head  away  that  he  might  not  see 
her  face. 

"He'd  best  not — go  too  far,"  said  he,  under  his 
breath.  "He'd  best  not  do  that.  I've  been  living  a 
good  deal  "among  people  who — aren't  very  civilized, 
Betty.  I  expect  it  has  made  a  part — savage  of  me. 
I  don't  think  I  could — quite  bear  seeing  you  ill-treat- 
ed. Don't  let  him  go  too  far." 

And  then  again,  for  a  little  space,  neither  of  the 
two  spoke. 

"Shall  we  go  on  —  down?"  Mrs.  Buchanan  said, 
finally.  "We're  earlier  than  the  others.  They  won't 

15 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

be  down  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  I  should  think." 
Faring  turned,  without  speaking,  and  they  went  down 
into  the  empty  drawing-room,  where  a  footman  was 
making  lights,  and  crossed  the  room  and  stepped  out 
through  an  open  window  upon  the  terrace. 

It  was  not  yet  dark.  The  dusk  was  but  beginning 
to  gather,  and,  out  over  the  leaden  sea  to  the  west, 
streaks  of  pale  light,  rose  and  gold  and  green  and 
lavender,  still  remained  above  the  horizon.  It  was  a 
warm  evening,  with  a  soft,  fitful  breeze,  with  summer 
odors,  with  cheeping  of  birds  and  insects.  There  was 
a  savor  of  smoke  in  the  air  above  the  clean,  keen  savor 
of  the  sea. 

Mrs.  Buchanan  stood  by  the  balustrade  of  the  ter- 
race, lax,  her  hands  hanging  at  her  sides,  her  face 
turned  to  that  thin,  pale  wash  of  colors  in  the  western 
sky,  but  the  man  watched  her  face  and  saw  how  the 
joy  of  life  had  gone  out  of  it — saw  the  darkness  be- 
neath her  eyes,  and  the  droop  of  her  mouth  that  had 
never  drooped  in  other  days.  And,  because  he  had 
loved  her  so  long,  an  agony  gripped  him,  watching, 
and  a  fierce,  burning  rage  at  the  man  who  had  made 
her  what  she  was. 

"Oh,  Betty!  Betty!"  he  cried,  and  some  of  that 
agony  and  burning  rage  must  have  been  in  his  tone, 
for  the  woman  turned  with  a  quick  breath  that  was 
like  a  sob. 

"Don't!"  she  said,  sharply.  "Harry,  don't!  You 
— mustn't  make  it  any — harder  for  me.  Listen,  Harry, 
you  must  help  me  all  you  can  in  these  next  few  days. 
I  shall  need  it.  I  need  it  now,  for  I'm  not  very  well, 
and  I'm  nervous  and  overwrought,  and  it's  going  to  be 
very  difficult  to  talk  and  laugh  with  these  people  who 
are  here,  and  to  pretend  that  nothing  is  wrong.  It's 

16 


FARING 

a  terrible  thing  that  you  and  I  should  be  here  together 
with  that — with  my  husband  watching  us  and  grinning 
and  chuckling  to  himself  over  my  distress,  but  it's  got 
to  be  gone  through  with.  Oh,  I  was  a  fool  to  let  you 
come — to  send  for  you — Harry,  can't  you  see?  I — 
wanted  so  to  see  you,  and,  when  he  demanded  that  I 
ask  you,  when  he —  No,  please,  don't  say  anything! 
Only  this  —  help  me  all  you  can.  We  mustn't  have 
any  more  talks  like  this.  We  mustn't  tell  the  truth 
again.  We  must  lie,  Harry,  lie  and  grin  and  make 
jokes,  and  never  let  any  one  know — that — our — hearts 
are — breaking.  Help  me,  Harry!" 

She  was  very  near  to  sobbing  then.  Faring  strained 
his  hands  together  behind  him,  and  shut  his  teeth.  He 
loved  her  very  dearly,  and  this  sort  of  thing  was  not 
easy  to  bear.  He  turned  away  and  walked  to  the  other 
end  of  the  long  terrace,  and  Beatrix  Buchanan,  in  spite 
of  the  nervous  spasm  which  was  shaking  her — wellnigh 
overpowering  her — watched  him  go,  watched  with  a 
sort  of  fierce  pride  the  set  of  his  head — thrust  forward, 
in  a  way  he  had  when  under  stress,  with  the  strong 
cords  of  his  neck  straining  at  his  collar — watched  the 
brown  hands,  so  fast  clinched  behind  his  back  that 
the  fingers  had  gone  white.  And  when  at  last  he 
turned  and  came  towards  her,  she  saw  his  face  and 
she  drew  a  quick,  little  sigh  of  relief,  as  one  who,  after 
strain  and  danger,  sees  safety  and  rest  approaching. 
For  she  knew  that  he  was  very  strong  and  sure  and 
unwavering,  and  that  she  could  lean  upon  him  to  the 
uttermost. 

Indeed,  he  looked  like  a  man  upon  whom  a  woman 
might  lean.  Strength  was  the  first  impression  one 
gained  upon  meeting  him — quiet,  indomitable,  unpre- 
tentious strength.  Possibly  this  was  in  part  because 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

he  was  an  unusually  silent  young  man.  Strong  men 
are  never  talkative.  More  probably  it  was  the  odd 
squareness  of  head  and  face,  which  seemed  made  up 
entirely  of  straight  lines — straight  brows,  straight  high 
nose,  close-shutting  mouth,  square-cleft  chin;  that  and 
the  level,  unwinking  gaze  of  his  eyes  which  looked  out, 
deep  set  under  their  brows,  very  calmly  upon  the 
world,  quite  without  expression.  They  told  nothing 
— like  Stambolof's  eyes.  Indeed,  but  for  the  Rus- 
sian's grizzled  mustache  and  "mouche,"  which  hid  his 
mouth,  the  two  men  would  have  been  strangely  alike, 
for  they  had  the  same  type.  Young  Faring  must  have 
been,  at  this  time,  about  one  and  thirty,  but  he  looked 
older,  for  his  face  was  exceedingly  tanned  and  burned 
and  weather-beaten,  so  that  it  was  darker  in  tone  than 
his  fair  hair.  Here  again  he  was  like  Stambolof,  for 
wind  and  weather  had  wrought  upon  him,  in  less 
measure,  of  course,  what  tragedy  had  wrought  upon 
the  elder  man.  The  two  might  almost  have  passed 
for  brothers. 

"You  haven't  told  me,"  he  said  to  Beatrix  Bu- 
chanan, "whom  you  have  here  this  week.  Whom  am 
I  to  meet?  Any  strangers?"  He  spoke  in  the  ordi- 
nary conversational  tone  of  half -intimate  friendship, 
and  that  is  a  good  evidence  of  his  power  of  self-control, 
for  he  had  probably  never  before  in  all  his  life  been  so 
deeply  moved  or  under  so  severe  a  strain  as  during  the 
past  few  minutes. 

Mrs.  Buchanan  looked  up  at  him  for  one  swift 
instant. 

"Oh,  you're  good,  Harry!  You're  good!"  she  said, 
in  a  whisper.  Then : 

"  I  think  you  know  them  all — or  don't  you  know  the 
Eversleys?  Colonel  Eversley  is  the  great  swell  on 

18 


FARING 

cavalry  equipment — whatever  that  is — and  he  has  been 
here  for  two  months  studying  the  American  system, 
for  some  book  he's  doing.  Lady  Sybil  is  with  him. 
She's  a  dear,  rather.  I  used  to  know  her  in  London 
before  she  married  and  before — I  did.  She  was  the 
Duke  of  Sundon's  youngest  daughter,  you  know — the 
late  Duke's.  Then  there  is  Aunt  Arabella  Crowley — 
Bless  her! — and  Stambolof.  You  like  him,  don't  you, 
Harry?  Do  you  know  you're  rather  alike,  you  two? 
Then  there's  Ellen  Trevor —  Oh,  I  beg  her  pardon! 
I  mean  Alianor  Trevor.  And  that's  all.  Did  you  ever 
hear  of  so  ill-assorted  a  party?  It's  the  Eversleys' 
party,  really.  I  wanted  them  here  and  asked  them, 
and  they  begged  me  not  to  have  a  lot  of  people.  They 
said  they  wanted  to  sit  in  the  sun  for  a  week  and  rest, 
because  they  both  were  fagged  out.  So  I  got  together 
only  quiet  people  who  wouldn't  want  to  dash  about 
and  do  things.  You,  Harry,  were  a — late  inspiration 
of  Herbert's.  Ah,  but  we're  not  to  talk  about  that, 
are  we?  Ah,  no!" 

She  caught  herself  up  with  a  laugh  that  was  half  a 
sob. 

"You  see,  little  Ellen  Trevor  is  pretty  and  childish, 
and  she'll  amuse  Colonel  Eversley  when  he  wants 
amusement — and  you,  Harry,  and  you!  And,  besides, 
she  is  glad  to  be  here  on  Stambolof 's  account.  She  has 
conceived  a  sort  of  frightened,  worshipful  passion  for 
Stambolof.  Such  kitten-like  girls  often  do  for  men 
of  the  tragic  type,  don't  they  ?  Of  course,  Stam- 
bolof doesn't  know.  If  he  did,  he'd  go  away  at 
once." 

"I  hear  voices  inside,"  said  Faring.  "I  expect  we 
must  go  in,  mustn't  we?" 

"Oh  yes,"  she  said.  "Yes,  of  course.  I'd  almost 
19 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

forgotten.     Come,  Harry,  we'll  go  in  to  them."     She 
touched  his  arm  for  an  instant  as  they  turned. 

"Do  you  suppose  God  is  fond  of  practical  jokes, 
Harry  ?"  she  asked.  "  How  He  must  laugh,  sometimes, 
mustn't  He,  at  the  hideously  comic  things  people  do 
with  their  lives!  Come  in  to  the  others." 


Ill 

THE    FIRST    CARD 

A  DINNER,  that  is  to  say  a  proper  dinner,  regard- 
/-\  ed  in  its  aspect  as  a  social  function  and  not  as  a 
mere  occasion  for  the  consumption  of  food,  has  certain 
qualities  in  common  with  a  theatrical  or  an  operatic 
performance.  There  are  times  when,  even  under  the 
most  unfavorable  auspices,  a  certain  spirit,  a  sympathy, 
a  rapport  falls  upon  the  occasion  and  at  once  lifts  it 
into  the  realm  of  perfection  —  when  nothing  can  go 
wrong,  when  the  poorest  and  meanest  of  integrals,  in 
some  happy  fashion,  combine  to  form  a  flowing  and 
concordant  whole.  On  the  other  hand,  there  are  times 
when  it  would  appear  that  devils  of  discord  are  abroad, 
when  the  elements  of  gold  combine  to  form  dinning 
brass,  and  no  efforts,  however  herculean,  seem  able  to 
bring  harmony  out  of  chaos.  Every  hostess  knows 
this,  as  does  every  musical  conductor  and  stage  man- 
ager, and  none  sits  down  to  her  perfectly  appointed 
table  without  a  desperate  inward  prayer  that  the  gods 
of  key  and  attunement  will  stand  round  and  about  her 
and  save  the  day. 

This  first  dinner  at  Buchanan  Lodge  was  an  unfort- 
unate example  of  the  latter  class.  It  began  with  in- 
harmonious elements,  and  the  elements  remained  at 
discord  through  the  meal.  In  the  first  place,  Beatrix 
Buchanan's  feeling  of  relief — almost  of  rest — over  her 

21 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

pact  with  Faring  had  been  at  best  but  a  momentary 
matter.  She  was  no  sooner  seated  at  the  table,  oppo- 
site her  husband's  mocking  gaze,  than  the  peace  went 
from  her  with  a  sudden  rush,  giving  way  to  a  lament- 
able nervousness.  She  had  been  under  strain  too 
long. 

Buchanan  himself  was  ever  the  worst  of  dinner  com- 
panions. Through  a  natural  disinclination  and  long 
disuse,  he  had  almost  entirely  lost  any  command  of 
small  talk  which  he  may  once  have  possessed,  and  in 
consequence  Lady  Sybil,  who  sat  at  his  right,  and  Ara- 
bella Crowley,  at  his  left,  had  a  bad  time  of  it. 

Stambolof  was  by  nature  too  silent  to  be  of  much 
use  in  such  a  crisis,  and  as  a  result  the  talk  was  almost 
entirely  confined  to  Eversley  and  Harry  Faring,  who 
had  found  ground  of  common  interest  in  certain  African 
explorations,  through  the  Uganda  country.  Faring,  it 
appeared,  had  taken  part  in  two  of  the  earlier  essays, 
and  Colonel  Eversley  was,  as  usual,  athirst  for  infor- 
mation. 

Arabella  Crowley,  stanch  old  soul,  did  her  best  in 
the  way  of  engaging  Lady  Sybil  across  their  silent  host ; 
and  little  Miss  Trevor,  from  time  to  time,  chattered 
feebly  when  she  could  find  a  listener.  But  in  all  it  was 
a  dismal  feast,  and  as  it  went  forward  it  became  more 
and  more  dismal,  for  there  began  to  occur  those  fatal 
moments  of  complete  silence,  after  one  of  which  at  least 
three  people  invariably  start  to  speak  at  the  same  mo- 
ment, and  then  fall  again  into  a  dreary  stillness. 

Then  a  thing  happened  which  all  at  once  changed 
the  lagging  gloom  of  the  dinner-table  into  something 
quite  different  and  very  much  worse.  Colonel  Evers- 
ley, suddenly  becoming  aware  that  he  and  Faring 
had  maintained  an  uninterrupted  dialogue  for  half  an 

22 


THE    FIRST    CARD 

hour  or  more,  broke  off  with  an  embarrassed,  laughing 
apology,  and  turned  to  his  hostess,  at  whose  right  he 
sat.  Devils  moved  him  to  rally  her  upon  her  altered 
appearance. 

"I  thought,  when  we  came,  you  know,"  he  said, 
"that  you  weren't  at  all  fit.  I  said  so  to  Sybil.  I 
said,  'Mrs.  Buchanan  ought  not  to  be  havin'  house- 
parties,  she  ought  to  be  in  bed.'  And  Sybil  thought 
so,  too.  But,  by  Jove!  it  only  wants  a  dinner  and  peo- 
ple around  you  and  all.  What!  I  never  saw  such 
a  difference  in  a  few  hours.  I've  got  a  sister  like  that, 
though.  Never  looks  herself  till  evening.  Then  she 
begins  to  sit  up  and  enjoy  herself,  you  know." 

It  will  be  reasonably  evident  that  Eversley  was  not 
a  tactful  man.  He  meant  well,  but  he  was  more  at 
his  ease  with  men.  His  remark  was  to  the  point,  how- 
ever, even  if  better  unmade.  Mrs.  Buchanan's  ex- 
treme nervousness  and  depression,  and  the  strong  effort 
she  was  making  to  hide  these,  had  sent  an  unnatural 
flood  of  color  to  her  cheeks  and  a  sort  of  restless  fire  to 
her  dark  eyes.  The  effect  was  extremely  beautiful, 
but  only  the  type  of  human  being  represented  by  Colo- 
nel Eversley  could  by  any  chance  have  mistaken  it  for 
well-being. 

She  turned  a  swift,  half -frightened  glance  towards 
Harry  Paring's  inscrutable  face  and  thence  to  the 
brooding  eyes  of  her  husband  across  the  table.  Bu- 
chanan leaned  forward  with  an  odd  little  smile.  One 
hand  was  playing  at  the  stem  of  his  wineglass. 

"All  phenomena  may  be  traced  to  a  cause,"  said  he, 
looking  down  at  the  glass  which  he  fingered.  "My — 
Mrs.  Buchanan's  high  spirits  this  evening  are  easily 
traceable.  She  is  harking  back  to  love's  young  dream. 
You  wouldn't  know,  of  course,  but  in  the  days  of  long 

a  23 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

ago  her  heart  and  Mr.  Taring's  beat  as  one.  Until  to- 
night they  have  scarcely  seen  each  other  since  that 
happy  time.  Hence  these  smiles  and  blushes." 

Now,  this  speech,  if  rendered  in  a  sufficiently  humor- 
ous fashion — if  burlesqued,  in  fact — might  pass,  though 
in  questionable  taste,  as  fairly  unobjectionable,  but 
Buchanan  spoke  it  with  a  certain  mocking  delibera- 
tion, and  the  thing  bore  close  to  the  verge  of  an  atro- 
cious insult.  Indeed,  to  every  one  at  the  table  who 
knew  the  man — in  other  words,  to  every  one  but  the 
Eversleys — the  intent  must  have  seemed  quite  beyond 
question. 

What  reason  he  could  have  had  for  making  the 
speech  it  is  impossible  to  imagine.  What  madness  was 
burning  in  the  man  to  drive  him  to  so  wanton  a  length 
one  cannot  think.  It  must  have  been  a  sudden  up- 
flaring  of  that  malice  which  had  been  so  slowly  grow- 
ing in  him.  It  is  not  impossible  that  his  nerves,  as 
well  as  Beatrix  Buchanan's,  were  racked  and  quivering 
this  night. 

For  an  interminable-seeming  moment  there  was  dead 
silence.  Then  Colonel  Eversley  gave  a  short,  amazed 
laugh,  fixing  his  glass  in  his  eye,  and  staring  up  the 
table  at  his  host  to  see  how  the  thing  was  to  be  taken. 
"I  say!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  say,  you  know!"  and 
turned  to  look  across  at  young  Faring. 

Beatrix  Buchanan  had  gone  perfectly  white,  but 
after  a  moment  the  color  came  flooding  back  to  her 
cheeks  once  more,  and  she  faced  about  towards  the 
Englishman  with  a  ready  smile. 

"Now  you  know  the  story  of  my  life,"  she  said, 
lightly.  "Please  say  that  you  think  it  is  very  pretty 
and  romantic!  Fancy!  The  two  ancient  sweethearts 
after  many  years — how  many  is  it,  Harry?  Only 

24 


THE    FIRST    CARD 

two  ? — brought  face  to  face  once  more  in  the  presence 
— nay,  at  the  very  dinner- table  of  the  cruel  husband 
of  one  of  them!  I  call  that  real  drama,  you  know. 
The  only  weak  point,"  she  complained,  "is  that  neither 
Mr.  Faring  nor  I  seems  able  properly  to  play  up  to  the 
part,  do  we?  We  ought  to  sigh  and  exchange  it- 
might-have-been  glances,  and  all  that.  We're  far  too 
stolid,  Harry." 

Colonel  Eversley  laughed  again,  a  bit  more  easily 
this  time,  and  said  it  was  a  rum  thing — not  that  he 
hadn't  seen  the  same  situation  before,  of  course,  many 
times  over.  Now,  he  had  a  cousin  who —  And  Harry 
Faring  at  once  began  some  laughing  remark  to  Lady 
Sybil,  and  old  Arabella  Crowley  plunged  into  the 
melee  with  a  rapid  fire  of  utter  nonsense,  so  that,  with 
every  one  talking  very  fast  and  no  one  listening  at  all, 
the  worst  of  the  situation  was  tided  over,  but  through 
it  all  there  remained,  naked  and  undisguised,  a  sense 
of  calamity,  an  atmosphere  uncleared  of  storm,  and 
the  remainder  of  the  dinner  went  with  a  feverish  haste 
which  would  have  been  almost  comic  if  it  had  not  been 
something  so  much  worse. 

When  at  last  the  women  had  gone,  Stambolof  made 
a  slight  motion  of  the  head  to  young  Faring,  and  at 
once  moved  up  into  the  vacant  chair  next  his  host, 
leaving  the  other  two  men  at  the  far  end  of  the  table. 
He  was,  in  his  quiet,  still  fashion,  thoroughly  angry, 
for  he  believed  that  Buchanan's  speech  had  been  meant 
for  a  deliberate  insult  to  his  wife,  so  framed  that,  if 
taxed  with  it,  he  could  readily  disclaim  any  serious- 
ness; but  Stambolof  was  wise.  He  had  lived,  in  his 
five -and -forty  years,  through  more  experiences  and 
vicissitudes  than  most  men  ever  meet  in  their  whole 
life's  span,  and  he  had  the  wit  to  see  that  Buchanan 

25 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

was  in  no  condition  of  nerves  or  temper  to  engage  in 
general  talk.  In  particular,  he  did  not  wish  him  to  be 
thrown  with  young  Faring. 

He  set  in  at  once,  therefore,  upon  a  dissertation  of 
unsurpassed  dulness  and  interminable  possibilities,  and 
it  did  not  in  the  least  annoy  him  to  see  that  Buchanan 
made  no  pretence  whatever  of  paying  heed,  but  sat  in 
a  sort  of  gloomy  apathy  staring  at  the  table  before  him, 
and  from  time  to  time  raising  his  little  liqueur-glass  of 
Chartreuse  to  sip  from  it. 

They  sat  there  for  half  an  hour  or  more,  until  at 
last  Stambolof  had  to  suggest  that  they  would  be 
missed  in  the  drawing-room;  and  in  all  that  while 
Buchanan  said  "Yes,  yes!"  once,  very  abstractedly, 
and  "Quite  so,"  two  or  three  times.  When  the  Rus- 
sian suggested  that  they  rejoin  the  women,  he  rose 
at  once,  silent  but  amenable,  and  followed  the  other 
three  men  without  a  word.  Stambolof  said  afterwards, 
to  Arabella  Crowley,  that  he  seemed  in  a  sort  of  daze — 
as  if  he  neither  saw  nor  heard  any  of  the  things  about 
him.  And,  in  the  light  of  what  occurred  later  that 
night,  Stambolof  spent  many  hours  in  wondering  what 
was  in  the  man's  mind  at  this  time.  For  that  matter, 
though,  no  one  was  ever  able  to  say  what  was  in  Bu- 
chanan's mind,  either  at  this  time  or  any  other.  He 
could  not  be  judged  by  other  men's  standards,  he 
dwelt  so  apart. 

Meanwhile,  in  the  drawing-room,  it  so  happened  that 
Lady  Sybil  and  little  Miss  Trevor — Alianor  Trevor,  as 
she  chose  to  subscribe  herself  since  spelling  out  the 
name  on  Queen  Eleanor's  tomb  in  Westminster  Abbey 
— found  themselves  together,  and  sat  down  in  a  corner 
of  the  big  room  to  discuss  the  characters  of  certain 
common  friends  in  London  and  in  Washington.  Bda- 

26 


THE    FIRST    CARD 

trix  Buchanan  had  moved  across  to  an  open  window, 
and  stood  a  moment,  raising  her  hot  face  to  the  caress 
of  the  soft  night  breeze.  Arabella  Crowley  joined  her 
there,  and  the  two  stepped  out  through  the  window 
upon  the  terrace,  where  the  moonlight  lay  in  silvery 
satin  barred  by  velvet  shadows. 

The  younger  woman  turned  her  face  to  the  pallid 
moon,  and  it  writhed  and  quivered  and  went  gaunt, 
like  the  face  of  one  who  dwells  in  unbearable  agony. 

"You  see,  Aunt  Arabella!"  she  cried,  shaking. 
"You  see!  How  is  one  to  bear  such  things — such  a 
life?" 

"Oh  yes,  dear  child,"  said  Mrs.  Crowley.  "Oh  yes, 
child,  I  see.  I  do  not  know  what  I  should  say  to  you," 
she  said.  "  I  expect  it  is  partly  because  I  am  still  very 
angry  at — your  husband.  That  was  a  shameful  thing 
he  did ! — and  partly  because  there  is  really  nothing  any 
one  can  say  in  such  matters  that  will  be  of  any  avail. 
Oh,  my  dear,  I  am  afraid  we  women  were  meant  to 
suffer — for  some  inscrutable  reason.  I  wonder  what! 
So  few  of  us  are  allowed  to  live  happy  lives.  I  am  an 
old  woman,  child,  and  I  have  had  both  joy  and  suffer- 
ing, but  I  think,  looking  back  upon  it  now  after  so 
many  years,  I  think  there  was  far,  far  more  suffering 
than  joy.  And  I  believe  it  has  been  so  with  all  the 
women  I  have  known.  Women  must  weep,  Betty, 
even  if  men  don't  work.  I  do  not  know  why.  I  can- 
not think  that  it  is  quite  just,  but  it  is  true."  She  took 
one  of  Mrs.  Buchanan's  hands  between  her  own,  which 
age  was  beginning  to  mark  with  wrinkles  and  distended 
veins. 

"I'm  not  very  comforting,  am  I?"  she  said.  "Alas, 
I  can  find  no  great  comfort  to  offer  you.  I  can  only 
say  that  you  were  very  brave  to-night.  I  loved  you 

27 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

for  that,  as  did  we  all,  I  think,  who  knew.     Just  go  on 
being  brave.     It's  the  only  thing." 

But  the  younger  woman  turned  upon  her  with  a  sort 
of  fierce  desperation. 

"I  cannot  go  on,  Aunt  Arabella!"  she  cried.  "It 
has  become  intolerable.  Ah,  you  can't  fancy  how  in- 
tolerable it  is!  I'm  in  prison  here,  a  prison  where 
they're  allowed  to  torture  me.  They  don't  do  that  in 
other  prisons — only  mine.  In  other  prisons  they  shut 
you  up  and  make  you  work — let  you  work.  Here  I 
must  be  idle,  idle  and  watched — spied  upon — insulted, 
as  to-night  at  dinner."  She  wrung  her  hands,  stand- 
ing there  tall  and  white  and  pitiful  in  the  moonlight. 

"I  want  my  happiness,  Aunt  Arabella!"  she  wept. 
"They've  taken  my  happiness  from  me,  and  my  youth, 
and  all  I  had  that  makes  life  bearable.  What  right 
have  people — grown,  experienced  people  who  know — 
to  sell  a  girl  into  such  slavery!  Oh  yes,  they  did  it! 
They  sold  me  to  Herbert  Buchanan  just  as  truly  as 
girls  are  sold  to  Turks  in  Stamboul.  And  I  was  a 
child  and  I  thought  it  didn't  matter.  I  thought  it 
meant  just  having  more  money  than  I'd  ever  had  be- 
fore, and  plenty  of  nice  people  round  me  constantly, 
and  the  freedom  that  I  wanted.  And  Harry — Faring 
was — away.  I  thought  he'd  forgotten,  and  so  I  con- 
sented." She  faced  old  Arabella  Crowley,  blazing 
anger  from  her  great  eyes. 

"How  dared  they  let  me  do  such  a  thing!"  she  cried. 
"They — my  own  people,  who  brought  me  into  the 
world  and  said  they  loved  me.  They  knew.  I  didn't. 
I  was  a  child.  And  they  knew  I  didn't,  and  still  they 
grinned  and  smiled  and  said  it  was  a  splendid  match, 
and  that  I'd  be  very  happy —  Happy!"  She  began 
to  weep. 

28 


THE    FIRST    CARD 

"I  want  my  happiness!"  she  said.  "I  was  lied  out 
of  it,  tricked  out  of  it,  and  I  have  a  right  to  happiness. 
I  want  it  back." 

"The  waters  do  not  flow  up-hill,  child,"  said  old 
Arabella  Crowley.  "I  am  afraid  there  is  nothing  for 
it  but  just  to  go  on  being  brave.  I  wish  there  were 
something  that  could  be  done,  but — I  don't  know  what. 
Only,  my  dear,  Harry  Faring  mustn't  stay  here.  You 
must  send  him  away.  I'll  speak  to  him  if  you  like. 
He  mustn't  stay.  It  is  much  worse  for  every  one  con- 
cerned." 

Mrs.  Buchanan  dropped  her  hands  and  turned  away 
with  a  little  tired  sigh.  Her  burst  of  passion,  it  would 
seem,  was  spent,  and  left  but  a  great  weariness  be- 
hind it. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  as  if  she  did  not  greatly  care.  "  Yes, 
I  expect  he  mustn't  stay.  It  is  harder  with  Harry 
here.  Oh,  much  harder!  It's  like — looking  through 
the  bars  at —  Oh,  Aunt  Arabella,"  she  cried,  and, 
quite  suddenly,  her  voice  began  to  shake  again.  "Aunt 
Arabella,  I've  loved  him  so!  There's  no  use  in  trying 
to  lie  to  you  or  to  myself.  It's  that  that's  making  my 
life  here  so  hideous.  Without  that  I  suppose  I  could 
get  on  somehow  in  spite  of  everything  else,  but  with  it 
I  can't.  Something's  got  to  happen.  Brave?  I'm 
not  brave.  There's  no  bravery  in  me,  nothing  but 
hatred  and  resentment  and — and — love.  What  am  I 
going  to  do  ?" 

Old  Arabella  soothed  and  petted  her  as  best  she 
might  in  her  half-scolding,  half -tender  fashion,  for  she 
saw  that  the  woman  was  almost  at  the  end  of  her 
strength,  and  that  a  little  more  of  this  sort  of  thing 
might  entirely  unfit  her  for  rejoining  her  guests  inside. 
So,  little  by  little,  she  brought  her  back  to  calmness 

29 


BUCHANAN'S  WIFE 

and  self-possession,  and  by  the  time  the  two  went  in 
through  the  open  window  to  the  drawing-room  one 
must  have  looked  very  closely  to  see  that  Mrs.  Bu- 
chanan had  been  on  the  verge  of  an  absolute  nervous 
breakdown. 

The  men  entered  the  room  almost  directly  after  them. 

"  And  now,"  said  old  Arabella  Crowley  to  herself, 
"look  out  for  trouble!"  And  she  crossed  the  room  to 
Buchanan's  side  with  Boris  Stambolof's  intent — to  iso- 
late the  man — for  she  did  not  know  how  far  he  might 
take  it  into  his  head  to  go,  once  he  had  made  a  begin- 
ning by  that  atrocious  speech  at  the  table.  She  had 
never  known  Buchanan  to  break  out  in  that  fashion 
before — his  ill-humors  commonly  taking  the  form  of 
moody  silence — and  it  put  her  off  her  reckoning.  He 
might  do  anything,  she  said,  nervously,  to  herself. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  need  have  had  no  fear. 
Buchanan,  in  leaving  the  dining-room,  had,  by  some 
supreme  effort,  shaken  off  his  depression  and  bitter- 
ness, and  seemed  rather  anxious  to  make  himself 
agreeable.  He  talked  for  a  few  moments  very  pleas- 
antly to  old  Arabella,  and  then,  with  an  apology, 
moved  over  towards  were  Lady  Sybil  sat  in  her  corner. 
As  he  went  he  passed  young  Faring,  and  nodded,  smil- 
ing. Then,  as  if  at  a  sudden  thought,  he  halted  beside 
the  other  man  and  touched  him  on  the  shoulder  with 
the  sort  of  familiar  gesture  which  one  friend  uses 
towards  another,  but  which  was  not  in  the  least  like 
Buchanan. 

"I  hope  I  didn't  bring  too  deep  a  blush  to  your 
cheek  at  dinner,"  he  said.  "It  was  a  rather  silly 
thing  to  say."  A  bit  of  red  came  up  over  his  own  face 
as  he  spoke.  Doubtless  the  apology  cost  him  some- 
thing. 

30 


THE    FIRST    CARD 

Young  Faring,  because  the  man  was  his  host,  smiled 
as  pleasantly  as  he  could,  and  made  some  trivial  re- 
mark with  the  intent  of  passing  the  thing  off  as  easily 
as  possible.  Then,  as  Buchanan  started  to  move  away, 
he  stopped  him. 

"Oh,  there  was  something  I  meant  to  tell  you,"  he 
said.  "I  really  hadn't  a  chance  earlier.  I  dare  say 
it's  of  no  consequence,  anyhow.  As  I  was  arriving,  an 
hour  before  dinner,  I  saw  a  man  loafing  about  among 
the  firs  near  the  gate.  He  couldn't  have  been  a  gar- 
dener, because  he  had  no  tools  or  anything,  and  be- 
cause he  drew  back  and  tried  to  hide  himself  among 
the  shrubs  as  my  trap  turned  into  the  drive.  I  was  in 
a  hired  cart,  you  know — my  train  was  very  late.  Then, 
when  I  got  out  of  the  trap  up  here,  under  the  porte- 
cochere  of  the  house,  I  chanced  to  look  back,  and  the 
chap  was  still  down  there  near  the  gate.  It's  nearly 
half  a  mile,  but  I  could  see  him  standing  among  the 
shrubbery.  I  dare  say  he  thought  he  was  hidden.  I 
spoke  to  the  butler  about  it,  and  he  said  he  would  send 
a  gardener  down,  but  I  thought  I'd  best  just  mention 
it  to  you  as  well.  Doubtless  they  chased  the  fellow 
away  promptly." 

"Oh,  thanks  very  much!"  said  Buchanan.  "Yes, 
I'm  glad  you  spoke  of  it.  I  don't  like  vagabonds  loaf- 
ing about  the  place.  We  had  an  insignificant  robbery 
only  a  month  ago.  Something  was  stolen  from  the 
stables.  I  dare  say  this  fellow  to-day  was  an  ordinary 
tramp  who  was  trying  to  screw  up  his  courage  to  the 
point  of  coming  to  the  house  to  beg.  Did  he  look  that 
sort  ?" 

"Well — no.  No,  hardly,"  said  young  Faring.  "Of 
course  I  hadn't  a  good  look  at  him,  but  his  clothes 
seemed  better  than  a  tramp's  would  be.  No,  I 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

shouldn't  think  he  was  a  tramp.  To  tell  the  truth,  he 
looked  more  like  a  discharged  groom  or  something.  I 
remember  that  he  had  a  long,  whitish  scar  across  one 
cheek.  I  saw  it  plainly  from  the  trap.  An  old  scar. 
But — "  He  halted  suddenly  as  Buchanan  made  a 
little  exclamation. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  doubly  glad  you  spoke,"  said  the  older  man. 
"This  fellow  with  the  scarred  cheek  I  believe  to  be  a 
thief  or  a  crook  of  some  sort.  He  came  to  me  yester- 
day, as  I  was  standing  on  the  terrace  yonder,  and 
asked  for  work.  I  had  nothing  for  him  to  do,  for  of 
course  my  butler  and  coachman  and  head-gardener  hire 
their  own  men  in  the  usual  fashion,  and  I  never  inter- 
fere. But  this  chap  was  so  entertaining  in  answering 
some  questions  that  I  took  him  into  my  study — I  was 
feeling  rather  bored  at  the  time — and  talked  to  him 
there.  Then  I  gave  him  a  five-dollar  bill  and  sent  him 
away.  It  occurred  to  me  afterwards  that  in  taking 
such  a  man  into  the  house  I  acted  very  foolishly.  I 
dare  say  he  took  copious  notes  while  he  was  there. 
Yes,  I  am  very  glad  you  spoke  about  seeing  him. 
He's  here  again  for  no  good,  I'm  sure.  I  must  have 
the  gardener  keep  a  close  watch."  He  paused,  and 
gave  a  little  retrospective  laugh. 

"The  chap  was  most  amusing,"  he  said.  "He  had 
been  everywhere  and  had  seen  a  great  many  things. 
Also,  I  think,  he  had  seen  rather  better  times.  His 
manners  were  excellent." 

Buchanan  nodded  and  passed  on  towards  Lady 
Sybil,  and  young  Faring  crossed  the  room  to  where 
his  hostess  and  Stambolof  stood  near  one  of  the  win- 
dows. 

Colonel  Eversley  had  manoeuvred  little  Alianor 
32 


THE    FIRST    CARD 

Trevor  into  a  corner  apart.  He  was  fond  of  young 
girls  of  the  childlike  type;  he  said  he  liked  to  watch 
their  little  ways.  And  it  was  beyond  question  that 
Miss  Trevor  was  very  pretty,  and  that  her  extreme 
ingenuousness  was  entirely  real.  She  had  great  store 
of  the  "little  ways"  which  Eversley  so  liked  to  watch. 

The  two  chanced  to  glance  across  the  room,  where 
Stambolof  and  Faring  stood  talking  with  their  hostess, 
and  Colonel  Eversley  nodded  his  head. 

"There  are  two  good  men!"  said  he.  "You'll  go  a 
long  way  before  you  find  better.  I  should  like  to  see 
more  of  that  Faring.  I  never  met  him  until  to-night, 
but  I  have  heard  of  him.  He  did  some  good  work  in 
Africa  last  year." 

"How  much  they  look  alike,  don't  they?"  said  little 
Miss  Trevor — "Stambolof  and  Harry  Faring." 

Eversley  put  up  his  glass. 

"They  do,  by  Jove,  don't  they!"  he  exclaimed.  "I 
hadn't  seen  them  together  before.  By  Jove,  they  do! 
They  have  very  much  the  same  type,  though,  of  course, 
they're  quite  different  in  every  other  way.  This  young 
Faring  is  essentially  a  man  of  action.  He's  a  man  I 
should  pick  to  take  command  of  a  difficult  situation. 
He's  adequate,  Faring  is.  That's  just  the  word !  He'd 
be  adequate  to  anything  that  was  given  him.  He's 
not  brilliant,  I  should  think,  but  he's  sure  and  steady, 
and  he  never  lets  go  when  he  has  taken  hold.  Look  at 
his  eyes,  and  that  jaw  of  his!  Ay,  he's  a  good  man! 
I  should  like  to  work  with  him." 

Little  Miss  Trevor  stirred  protestingly  in  her  chair. 

"Yes,"  she  said — "yes,  of  course,  but  I  should  have 
thought—  Isn't  M.  Stambolof  all  those  things,  too? 
Oh,  surely,  he  must  be!" 

"Stambolof?"  said  he.     "Oh,  well— yes,  I  suppose 

33 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

so.  But — well,  you  see  Stambolof's  out  of  the  run- 
ning, rather,  isn't  he?  Stambolof's — a  sort  of  walking 
tombstone.  Stambolof's  a  man  who  gives  you  the  im- 
pression of  having  lived  his  life  and  finished  it  long  ago, 
and  of  just  staying  on  because  he — well,  can't  die. 
No.  One  doesn't  think  of  Stambolof  as  doing  any- 
thing nowadays.  He's  done  it  all.  He's  waiting  to 
die." 

The  girl  shivered. 

"How  horrible!  How  very  horrible!"  she  said. 
"I'm  sure  it  isn't  so.  I — don't  like  to  think  that  of 
him." 

"It's  true,  though,"  insisted  Eversley.  "If  you 
could  look  inside  Stambolof  you'd  not  find  any  heart 
there  or  —  or  soul,  or  any  of  the  common  things. 
You'd  find  ashes,  I  expect.  Oh  yes,  his  life  ended 
some  seven  or  eight  years  ago.  And  he's  not  old, 
either.  He's  no  older  than  I  am — four  or  five  and 
forty,  I  should  think;  but,  you  see,  he's  not  like  other 
people.  He's  like  a  man  in  a  book — one  of  these 
grande  passion  people.  You  know  about  it  all,  I 
suppose?" 

"No,"  said  the  girl,  "I'm  afraid  I  don't.  I  knew 
that  M.  Stambolof  had  had  a  very  tragic  life,  and 
that  something  very  terrible  happened  to  him  to  make 
him  so  —  unhappy,  but  I  never  knew  just  what  it 
was." 

"Well,  I  don't  suppose  there's  any  reason  for  not 
talking  about  it,"  said  Eversley.  "I  thought  every- 
body knew.  Everybody. in  London  and  Paris  does, 
because  the  affair  was  widely  talked  about  at  the  time 
it  happened.  That  will  have  been  nearly  eight  years 
ago,  I  think.  You  see,  there  was  a  Frenchman,  the 
Comte  de  Colonne — de  Vitry-Colonne — who  had  an  ex- 

34 


THE    FIRST   CARD 

tremely  beautiful  wife.  I  expect  he  loved  her,  no  one 
could  have  helped  it,  but  he  was  a  blackguard  and 
fiendishly  jealous,  and  he  used  to  ill-treat  her  shame- 
fully. Well,  it  was  a  rather  open  secret  that  Boris 
Stambolof  loved  her  too,  and  that  she  returned  it — she 
was  very  unhappy,  you  understand — but  it  was  just 
as  openly  known  that  she  was  a  good  woman  and  that 
there  was  nothing  wrong. 

"Then  one  night,  at  a  dinner-party  out  at  Colonne's 
chateau  near  Fontainebleau,  Colonne,  who  was  in  a 
nasty  humor,  and  had  been  drinking  a  bit  too  much 
wine,  probably,  insulted  his  wife  foully  before  all  the 
guests.  Stambolof  got  up  and  struck  him  in  the  face, 
and,  half  an  hour  later,  in  Colonne's  own  hall,  with  two 
or  three  of  the  other  men  holding  candles,  they  fought 
a  most  informal  duel  with  swords,  and  Colonne  was 
killed — run  through  the  heart." 

Little  Miss  Trevor  gave  a  little,  shivering  gasp  of 
horror,  and  she  stared  across  the  room  at  the  Russian, 
with  his  grief -scarred  face  and  tragic  eyes,  who  stood 
so  quietly  talking  to  his  hostess.  She  remembered, 
just  then,  that  she  had  never  seen  him  laugh,  that  when 
he  smiled  his  lips  smiled  only,  his  hollow  eyes  were 
sombre  and  still. 

"But  the  Countess?"  she  asked,  presently  —  "the 
Countess  ?  What  became  of  her  ?" 

"Ah,  Ame'lie?"  said  Colonel  Eversley.  "She  went, 
I  believe,  to  certain  relatives  in  Paris,  but  the  shock 
and  all  she  had  been  suffering  for  a  long  time  had 
broken  her  badly.  She  was  never  strong.  She  died 
within  a  month.  Then  Stambolof  disappeared.  He 
went  away  somewhere  for  two  or  three  years,  and  when 
he  came  back  he  was — like  that.  Yes,  he's  a  living 
tombstone,  Stambolof  is — a  sepulchre.  There's  only 

35 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

ashes  inside  him,  I  expect.  He's  not  the  man  to  live 
anything  like  that  down.  There's  too  much  Russian 
in  him — too  much  natural  melancholy.  He's  only  half 
Russian,  by  the  way.  His  mother  was  English." 

"Could  any  man  live  such  a  thing  down?"  asked 
little  Miss  Trevor,  after  a  silence. 

"Eh,  what?"  said  he.  "Oh,  dear  me,  yes.  Oh, 
Lord,  yes.  Heaps  of  men.  But  they'd  be  tougher 
fibre  than  Stambolof.  He  has  too  much  Russian  in 
him.  They're  all  dreamers,  those  chaps.  There's 
something  sad  about  them  all." 

Little  Miss  Trevor  sat  silent  again  for  a  long  time. 
Her  hands  were  twisting  together  in  her  lap  and  her 
eyes  were  lowered  to  them.  At  last  she  said : 

"Thank  you  for  —  telling  me  that.  I'm — glad  to 
know.  I  think,  do  you  know,  that  I'll  be  off  up-stairs, 
if  you  don't  mind.  I've  a  sort  of — headache,  to-night. 
You  don't  mind  ?" 

Colonel  Eversley  rose  at  once,  and  said  it  was  the 
best  thing  she  could  do  if  she  had  a  headache. 

"Though,  of  course,  I  do  mind!"  he  protested,  gal- 
lantly. '"Fraid  I've  been  boring  you  with  all  this 
tragedy." 

"Oh  no,"  she  said,  quickly,  "no,  really!  I'm — so 
very  glad  you  told  me.  I'm  glad  to  know  about  it. 
How  some  men  have — suffered,  haven't  they,  Colonel 
Eversley?  If  only  one  could  help  them — make  it  up 
to  them  somehow.  Of  course,  one  can't,  though  ?"  She 
paused  a  moment,  rather  as  if  she  hoped  that  he  would 
say  something  more — answer,  perhaps,  the  half -ques- 
tioning tone  in  which  she  had  said,  "Of  course  they 
can't,  though?"  Then  she  nodded,  and  said,  "Good- 
night," and  went  across  the  room  to  Beatrix  Bu- 
chanan. 

36 


THE    FIRST    CARD 

The  Eversleys  very  soon  made  their  excuses  and 
went  up-stairs,  too,  Lady  Sybil  protesting  that  they 
had  been  kept  so  busy  in  Washington  and  New  York 
for  the  past  fortnight  that  she  had  forgotten  what 
sleep  was  like.  Indeed,  she  looked  tired  and  really  ill. 

"And  as  for  you,  my  dear  lady,"  said  Stambolof  to 
his  hostess,  when  the  others  had  gone,  "if  I  may  pre- 
sume to  offer  advice,  I  should  say,  do  you  go  and 
take  your  sleep  also.  For  the  remainder  of  the  week 
we  shall  probably  keep  you  up  to  unseemly  hours. 
Therefore,  sleep  while  you  may.  You  also  are  tired." 

"She  is  coming  this  instant,"  said  Arabella  Crowley, 
"with  me.  She  is  tired,  and  so  am  I.  We  will  leave 
you  men  to  your  own  devices,  meaning  thereby,  I  take 
it,  whiskey  and  tobacco.  Stambolof,  you  are  to  drive 
me  over  to  Red  Rose  to-morrow.  The  Tommy  Carter- 
ets  are  there,  and  I  want  you  to  see  them  again.  Good- 
night." 

The  three  men,  thus  left  alone,  stood  talking  for  a 
few  moments — at  least,  Stambolof  and  young  Faring 
talked,  Buchanan  seeming  again  to  have  dropped  back 
into  his  brooding  mood.  Then,  finally,  the  host  said: 

"I  shall  go  to  my  study,  I  think,  for  a  pipe  before 
turning  in.  Would  you  care  to  come?"  He  spoke,  as 
it  were,  to  both,  but  he  looked  towards  Stambolof,  and 
there  was  a  sort  of  shy,  deprecating  appeal  in  his  tone 
which  could  not  have  failed  to  reach  the  man.  But 
Stambolof  shook  his  head. 

" Thanks,  not  to-night,  I  think,"  said  he.  "  Like  the 
others,  I  need  my  sleep.  I  shall  have  a  turn  up  and 
down  the  terrace  yonder  for  a  breath  of  air,  and  then 
go  to  my  bed.  Another  time,  if  you  will  be  so  good." 
He  laid  a  hand  on  Harry  Faring's  shoulder.  "You 
will  join  me?"  he  said. 

37 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

"  Yes,  yes,  certainly,"  said  Faring.  Buchanan  turned 
away. 

"As  you  like,"  he  said,  "as  you  like.  Good-night  to 
you  both."  He  hesitated  a  moment,  that  half-ashamed 
appeal,  almost  wistfulness,  in  his  bearing  as  it  had  been 
in  his  voice.  Then  he  went  out  of  the  room,  and  as  he 
went  his  shoulders  seemed  to  droop  as  if  he  were  tired. 

There  were  many  things  in  Stambolof's  tragic  life 
to  remember  and  brood  over,  many  things  which  could 
never  be  forgotten,  and  long  after  this  time  he  con- 
fessed to  Harry  Faring  that  one  of  them  was  the  wist- 
fulness in  Buchanan's  bearing,  the  tired  droop  of  the 
shoulders,  the  odd,  lonely,  friendless  spirit  which 
seemed  to  hang  about  him  as  he  left  the  drawing-room 
that  night  to  go  alone  to  his  study. 

"If  only  I  had  gone  with  him!"  the  Russian  would 
say.  "Who  knows?" 

But  the  two  left  together  went  out  upon  the  terrace, 
which  was  still  silvered  with  moonlight,  for  the  moon 
was  full;  and  they  lighted  cigarettes  and  walked  up 
and  down  the  long  stretch,  breathing  in  the  sweet, 
summer-night  air. 

"  May  I  speak  freely  ?"  asked  the  Russian,  after  a  lit- 
tle time.  "We  have  not  known  each  other  very  long, 
but  there  is — is  it  not  so  ? — a  certain  sympathy  between 
us  which  makes  frank  speech  possible.  You  must  go 
away  from  here.  It  will  not  do  for  you  to  stay." 

"Oh  yes,"  said  young  Faring,  readily.  "Yes,  of 
course  I  must  go.  I  shall  have  some  telegrams  to- 
morrow, and  I  shall  say  that  one  of  them  calls  me  back 
to  New  York  upon  urgent  affairs.  No,  after  what 
happened  to-night  at  dinner  I  could  not  remain,  of 
course.  Is  the  man  mad?" 

"Very  nearly,  I  think,"  said  Stambolof.  "He  is  of 
38 


THE    FIRST    CARD 

the  stuff  of  which  mania  is  made.  Have  you  noticed 
his  eyes  and  the  construction  of  his  skull  ?  He  is  ex- 
ceedingly alone  and  he  is  exceedingly  melancholy  by 
temperament — and  it  is  the  worst  type  of  melancholy. 
Now  I,  I  suppose,  am  melancholy  too,  but  it  is  a  very 
different  sort.  I  could  not  go  mad.  Buchanan  might, 
very  easily.  He  is  more  nervous  than  you  would  be- 
lieve, and  irritable  and  malicious.  That  which  he  did 
to-night  was  sheer  malice.  I  was  very  angry  for  a 
time,  but  afterwards,  when  I  thought  it  over,  I  was 
less  angry  and  more  sorry.  The  man  is  scarcely  re- 
sponsible for  what  he  does." 

"That  makes  it  no  easier  for  his  wife,"  said  Faring. 

"No,  of  course  not,  and  it  makes  what  he  did  no 
less  of  an  insult.  Still,  in  a  way,  I  am  sorry  for  him. 
He  is  very  lonely." 

Faring  looked  away. 

"It  was  very — jolly  of  you,"  he  said,  awkwardly, 
"to  take  the  man  on,  as  you  did,  when  the  women  had 
gone — sitting  and  talking  to  him,  I  mean.  I'm  afraid 
I — I  should  have  strangled  him,  I  expect.  I  was — 
grateful,  you  know.  I'd — I'd  like  you  to  know  it." 

Stambolof  smiled  a  bit  sadly  in  the  moonlight. 

"My  friend,"  he  said,  "the  situation  was,  to  a  less 
degree — greatly  less — so  like  another  one,  of  which 
you  have  doubtless  heard,  that  I  could  but  hasten  with 
all  my  power  to  avert  what — what  happened  in  the 
other  case." 

"Yes,  I — know,"  said  young  Faring.  "I  know.  I 
was  thinking  of  that.  Oh,  for  God's  sake,  what's  to 
come  of  this  ?  Bdatrix  can't  go  on  with  it  much  longer. 
She's  just  about  at  the  end  of  her  endurance.  She 
wasn't  meant  to  endure  things.  She's  not  that  sort. 
She  was  meant  to  be  happy." 

4  39 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

The  Russian  looked  across  at  the  younger  man 
quickly. 

"You  have  a  great  deal  of  penetration,"  he  said, 
"more  than  I  should  have  suspected.  That  is  very 
true.  She  is  not  the  sort  to  bear  unhappiness  well. 
Some  women  bear  it  all  their  lives,  others — more  ner- 
vous, I  expect — cannot  do  so.  What  is  to  come  of  it? 
I  cannot  answer  you  that.  Those  things  are,  I  take  it, 
on  the  knees  of  God.  We  can  only  stand  by  and  watch. 
We  cannot  help  much.  God  is  singularly  intolerant  of 
help.  I  know,  because  I  have  tried  to  interfere  in  His 
affairs,  and  as  the  result  I  am  not  a  man,  I  am  grief 
walking  upon  the  earth,  a  thing  racked  and  wrung 
by  tortures — which  cannot  die.  Did  something  move, 
just  then,  on  the  lawn  below?  No,  the  shadow  of  a 
shrub  that  the  wind  bent,  probably !  I  thought  some- 
thing moved  towards  the  farther  side  of  the  house.  I 
was  wrong.  The  farther  side  of  the  house?  There's 
where  poor  Buchanan's  sitting  alone,  with  gloom  about 
him  and  bitterness  eating  at  his  heart —  No,  noth- 
ing's stirring  below  there.  I  was  mistaken.  Eh — poor 
Buchanan!  Come,  lad,  let's  to  bed  with  us!  It  grows 
late." 


IV 

IN    THE    ROOM    WHERE    THE    OLD   GODS    SAT 

THE  room  which  Buchanan  called  his  "study"  was 
an  out -house,  a  square,  fire-proof,  brick  structure 
detached  from  the  house  and  connected  with  it  only 
by  a  narrow  passage  with  double  doors  made  like  the 
doors  of  a  safe.  The  place  had  been  built  by  the  for- 
mer owner  of  Buchanan  Lodge,  who  was  a  famous 
Orientalist,  to  contain  his  extremely  valuable  library 
and  his  collection  of  Chinese  and  Japanese  porcelain 
and  jade  and  armor  and  carved  woods  —  a  collection 
which,  at  his  death,  went  to  the  Metropolitan  Museum 
in  New  York.  Inside,  the  structure  was  a  single  room, 
sixty  feet  square  and  a  story  and  a  half  high,  with  a 
narrow  balcony  running  round  three  sides  of  it,  and 
small,  clere- story  windows  to  admit  light,  as  well  as 
the  larger  ones  below,  which  had  been  heavily  barred 
like  the  windows  of  a  prison. 

When  Buchanan  took  the  place  he  had  these  bars 
torn  away,  because  he  said  they  were  a  standing  dare 
to  thieves ;  and  he  fitted  the  huge  room — one  could  not 
say  filled  it — with  a  very  heterogeneous  assortment  of 
treasures  which  his  father  had  bequeathed  to  him. 
From  the  gallery,  whose  balustrade  was  a  series  of 
Japanese  temple  ramas  of  carved  wood — dragons  and 
elephants  and  all  manner  of  grinning  monsters  — •  he 
hung  Persian  and  Turkish  rugs,  and  a  set  of  very  fine 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

fifteenth  -  century  Flemish  tapestries.  From  the  high 
ceiling  he  suspended  Spanish  altar-lamps  and  Chinese 
lanterns  of  pierced  brass.  Below,  Venetian  thrones 
and  age-stained  marble  tables  struggled  with  ceremo- 
nial priests'  chairs  out  of  a  Japanese  temple;  and  the 
effigy  of  a  Florentine  knight  in  armor  glared  across  the 
shadows  at  a  Samurai  in  his  exquisite  gold  -  wrought 
fighting-gear. 

To  a  purist  in  artistic  matters,  the  great  room  must 
have  seemed  a  chamber  of  horrors,  but,  in  spite  of  all, 
it  undoubtedly  had  a  certain  uncouth  and  bizarre  im- 
pressiveness,  a  sort  of  barbaric  majesty.  Entering  it 
for  the  first  time  one  did  not  laugh,  one  gasped.  It 
was  like  entering  the  great  treasure-hall  of  some  bar- 
baric conqueror,  full  of  the  spoil  of  temples  and  cities. 
It  was  a  dim  place,  shadowy  even  by  day,  full  of  gloom- 
enfolded  spaces  by  night — corners  whence,  as  the  eye 
slowly  accustomed  itself  to  the  darkness,  strange  gods 
and  demons  and  contorted  symbolic  beasts  grinned 
and  leered. 

Gods  of  stone  and  brass,  stained  with  the  altar  smoke 
of  centuries ;  gods  of  dead  creeds  and  forgotten  ritual 
loom  strangely  solemn  from  their  niches  nowadays. 
Weapons  that  slew  men  when  the  world  was  young, 
helms  that  shed  death  from  royal  brows  bear  a  certain 
austere  sanctity  even  to  the  scoffer  in  this  age  of  dyna- 
mite and  democracy.  Alien  fingers  touch  them  gin- 
gerly, for  they  moulded  nations  out  of  other  nations, 
and  the  very  borders  of  both  are  long  since  forgotten. 
There  is  something  in  an  ancient  thing  which  must 
command  respect — quite  beyond  the  fact  that  it  fetches 
a  good  price  in  the  auction-room. 

Buchanan  went  through  the  little  narrow  passage 
which  connected  his  museum  with  the  house,  and 

42 


WHERE    THE    OLD    GODS    SAT 

clanged  the  iron  door  behind  him.  It  did  not  lock 
automatically,  as  it  had  been  built  to  do,  for  the 
mechanism  had  long  been  out  of  order.  He  turned 
two  or  three  of  the  keys  on  the  switchboard  near  by, 
and  from  the  hanging-lamps  tiny  beams  of  yellow  light 
burst  suddenly  into  flower  against  the  gloom  and  fell 
athwart  dull  gold  and  steel  and  yellowed  marble,  in  an 
effect  sombre  and  grotesque  and  weirdly  impressive. 
He  turned  another  key,  and  the  one  big  reading-lamp, 
which  stood  on  its  broad  table — a  Byzantine  table  of 
cracked  marble  inlaid  with  colored  stones — glowed  like 
a  full,  yellow  moon  among  stars. 

"At  last!"  said  Buchanan,  with  a  great  sigh  of  relief, 
and  he  drew  his  shoulders  together  and  shook  them,  as 
if  he  would  physically  shake  off  that  which  pressed 
upon  him. 

"Another  day  gone,  thank  God!"  he  said.  "And 
what  a  day,  what  a  day!"  He  spoke  aloud,  as  men 
who  live  very  much  alone  are  apt  to  do. 

"A  few  hours  more  of  it,"  said  he,  "and  I  should 
have  raved — gibbered."  In  truth,  the  evening  had 
shaken  him — that  little  scene  at  table,  especially — and 
his  nerves  were  in  a  bad  way.  Without  his  realizing  it 
at  all  they  had  been,  for  a  long  time,  going  from  bad  to 
worse.  Stambolof  was  right,  there,  his  wise  eyes  had 
seen  well.  The  solitary  life  he  led,  the  lonely,  brooding 
gloom,  the  lack  of  bodily  exercise  had  told.  He  had 
been  fancying  himself  very  strong,  as  gloomy  men 
nearly  always  do,  and  now,  quite  suddenly,  in  one  un- 
controllable burst  of  that  bitter  malice  of  his,  he  had 
found  himself,  on  the  contrary,  very  weak,  and  it 
frightened  him.  His  sneering  little  speech  at  dinner 
had  not  been  deliberate,  it  had  blazed  up  out  of  a 
moment's  jangle  of  nerves — a  moment  in  which  his 

43 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

control  of  himself  had  entirely,  astonishingly  given 
way.  With  a  man  of  another,  franker  type,  exactly 
the  same  inward  condition  would  have  resulted  in  a 
furious  outburst  of  violence. 

The  thing  had  left  him  frightened  and  unstrung  and 
much  depressed.  As  he  sat  down  beside  the  Byzantine 
table,  there  in  his  great  chamber,  and  poured  himself  a 
measure  of  whiskey  from  the  near-by  decanter,  he  found 
his  hands  trembling,  and  scowled  over  them. 

"A  few  hours  more  of  it,"  he  repeated,  gulping  the 
liquor  thirstily,  "and  I  should  have  gibbered.  Why 
the  devil  did  I  make  her  ask  the  man  here?  Why 
didn't  I  let  it  alone?  It  was  a  mistake." 

He  said  that  over  and  over  again. 

"It  was  a  mistake — a  mistake!"  And  he  frowned 
sullenly  out  across  the  shadows,  clasping  and  unclasp- 
ing the  hands  that  lay  upon  his  knees.  "I  shall  have 
to  be  civil  to  him,"  he  said,  "and  to  all  the  rest  of 
them.  I  shall  have  to  grin  and  smirk  and  fawn  and 
listen  to  their  silly  speeches  by  the  hour  and  hour  to- 
gether. Oh,  it's  damnable!  The  whole  rotten  marion- 
ette show  is  damnable!  Shall  I  never  have  done  with 
it  ?"  The  fire  within  him  flared  suddenly  up  in  a  weak 
outburst,  and  he  sprang  to  his  feet  and  began  to  walk 
up  and  down  the  room  among  his  gods  and  warriors 
and  his  carven  oak. 

"One  thing's  sure!"  he  said,  angrily,  "this  ends  the 
house-party  giving.  I'll  have  no  more  of  it.  I'll:  be 
quit  of  that,  at  least.  I'll  have  some  sort  of  peace  in 
my  own  house — some  sort  of  quiet.  Who  is  there  in 
that  lot  yonder  that  cares  whether  I'm  in  the  room  or 
out  of  it — cares  whether  I'm  alive  or  dead  ?  Why 
should  I  have  them  about  me?  I'm  better  rid  of 
them." 

44 


WHERE    THE    OLD    GODS    SAT 

From  that  his  mind  went  to  Stambolof,  and  Stam- 
bolof's  refusal  to  come  and  sit  with  him,  and  at  the 
thought  his  face  twisted  into  a  wry  grin  of  bitterness. 
The  thing  had  hurt  him  oddly.  It  had  seemed  to  him, 
in  his  abnormal  sensitiveness,  a  rebuff  that  was  almost 
an  affront. 

"Even  Stambolof!"  he  cried,  aloud,  with  his  wry, 
twisted  grin,  and  his  voice  trailed  away  into  mutter- 
ings,  only  to  rise  again  presently. 

"To  be  rid  of  it  all!"  he  cried,  tramping  the  floor, 
"clear  of  the  whole  tangle,  out  of  it  for  good  and  for- 
ever!" And  at  that  his  face  jerked  up  suddenly,  and 
he  halted  in  mid-stride  beside  the  marble  table. 

"That  /"  he  said,  in  an  odd,  startled  tone.  "That  ? 
— I  wonder."  He  went  slowly  across  the  room  to  a 
certain  ancient  cabinet  of  carved  Venetian  walnut,  and 
he  opened  a  door  in  this  and  took  something  into  his 
hand  and  came  as  slowly  back  to  the  table,  where  the 
lamplight  glowed.  He  dropped  into  the  arm-chair 
where  he  had  been  sitting  before,  and  laid  a  pistol — a 
revolver — on  the  table  beside  him.  The  light  glittered 
evilly  along  its  polished  barrel  and  upon  the  foolish 
mother-of-pearl  which  encased  its  butt. 

"Why  not?"  said  Buchanan,  holding,  as  it  were,  his 
paltry  little  life  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand  and  sombrely 
regarding  it.  "  Why  not  ?  A  moment's  work  and  I'm 
out  of  my  tangle — well  out  of  it,  and  for  good  and  ever. 
What  have  I  to  live  for?  What  will  to-morrow  be?" 
His  face  twitched  awry  again  in  that  sorry,  bitter  grin. 
"And  the  day  after  that — and  next  week,  next  year? 
My  God,  what  of  the  years  to  come!  I'm  young  yet. 
I  may  live  forty  years  more — fifty!"  His  voice  ran  up 
into  a  sort  of  cry  and  broke,  and  his  hand  went  out  to 
the  pistol,  which  lay  there  gleaming  in  the  lamplight. 

45 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

But,  as  if  the  thing  had  been  hot  and  had  burned  him, 
the  hand  jerked  nervously  back  again  and  the  man 
shivered.  He  was  not  brave,  he  was  only  morbid. 
He  had  very  little  courage  either  moral  or  physical. 
"I — don't  want  to  die,"  said  Buchanan,  in  a  shaking 
whisper.  "It's  cowardly  —  cowardly!"  he  said,  lying 
miserably  to  himself. 

Thereafter,  sunk  in  his  great  arm-chair,  huddled, 
chin  on  breast,  he  fell  into  a  sort  of  sullen  silence,  star- 
ing before  him,  and  he  sat  for  a  long  time  saying  noth- 
ing more.  Only  from  time  to  time  his  eyebrows 
twitched  or  his  lips  moved  noiselessly.  It  chanced 
that,  as  he  turned,  he  faced  one  of  the  ancient  gods 
who  sat  arow  against  the  walls  of  the  room — a  Buddha, 
this,  of  gilded  bronze,  the  dull  gold  gone  in  patches 
from  the  worn  surface;  Buddha  seated  upon  a  lotus- 
cup,  head  bent  forward  a  little,  faintly  smiling,  sphinx- 
like,  enigmatic.  The  figure  was  not  above  a  foot  high, 
but  it  loomed  mountainous  and  majestic  from  its 
shadows.  It  knew  all  things,  both  good  and  bad,  and 
had  discovered  the  great  secret — that  neither  of  them 
mattered  in  the  least.  It  smiled  serene  and  un- 
troubled, neither  amused  nor  scornful,  over  the  making 
and  the  wreck  of  empires.  It  saw  nations  come  and 
build  and  boast,  and  presently  scatter  again.  It  saw 
an  infinite  swarming  of  human  things  that  flowed  and 
ebbed  about  its  feet.  It  saw  the  old  faiths  die  and 
new  ones  spread  abroad,  but  the  smile  neither  widened 
nor  disappeared,  for  the  new  faiths  would  presently  die 
too.  It  looked  out  over  the  mountains  and  beyond 
the  horizon's  rim  down  the  halls  of  eternity,  where 
there  must  have  been  some  great  peace  and  reward, 
for  Buddha  smiled — serene,  sphinxlike,  enigmatic. 

The  man  stirred  uneasily  in  his  chair. 
46 


WHERE   THE    OLD   GODS   SAT 

"Oh,  you  may  grin!"  he  said,  "you  may  well  grin. 
You'll  see  it  out — all  the  rotten  show.  You'll  see  us 
all  out.  You'll  be  grinning  when  we're  dead  and  gone, 
and  when  the  sea  dries  up  and  the  mountains  fall  over. 
What's  a  life  to  you  ?  You  don't  have  to  bother  with 
it.  You  just  grin  and  it  passes  by  in  two  winks.  You 
don't  have  to  grind  out  every  day  and  make  the  hours 
drag  along,  and  curse  every  hour  because  you're  a 
damned  shackled  slave.  But  7  do!  /  do,  and  I  tell 
you  I  can't  bear  it  any  longer.  I  want  to  be  free,  I 
want  to  be  loose  of  these  fetters.  I  want  to  go  out  and 
tramp  the  earth  and  breathe  the  air  and  be  answerable 
to  nobody.  I  tell  you  I  can't  bear  this  sort  of  thing 
any  longer.  My  nerves  are  drawn  to  fiddle-strings,  and 
they're  snapping  one  by  one.  Oh,  for  God's  sake,  stop 
grinning  there!"  He  snatched  a  book  from  the  table 
and  made  as  if  to  hurl  it,  but  the  strength  went  sud- 
denly out  of  his  arm,  and  the  book  dropped  open  to  his 
knees  and  so  slid  to  the  floor,  rumpling  and  creasing 
its  leaves  as  it  fell. 

So  again  he  dropped  into  a  moody,  frowning  silence, 
and  another  long  time  passed.  But  at  its  end,  sunk 
in  abstraction  though  he  was,  dulled  to  outer  impres- 
sions, something  called  him  to  himself.  That  unnamed 
sense  which  gives  warning  of  danger,  which  makes  felt 
the  unseen,  unheard  presence  of  another  being  in  the 
room,  all  at  once  waked  him,  brought  him  to  attention, 
and  a  moment  after  he  was  conscious  that  a  current  of 
air  was  entering  the  place.  He  felt  it,  cool  and  fresh, 
against  the  back  of  his  head. 

It  has  been  said  that  Buchanan  was  not  a  courageous 
man,  and  that  was  true,  but  it  must  be  admitted  that 
at  this  moment  he  acted  with  coolness  and  discretion. 
It  so  happened  that  under  the  great  Byzantine  table 

47 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

by  which  he  sat  was  another  electric  switchboard, 
whose  keys  controlled  a  series  of  lights  about  the  room. 
He  had  had  the  thing  put  there  because  he  habitually 
sat  in  this  one  spot,  and  it  amused  him  to  be  able, 
without  moving  from  his  seat,  to  make  a  light  in  any 
corner  of  the  huge  chamber  that  he  wished.  By  light- 
ing first  one  area  and  then  another,  he  often  got, 
thanks  to  the  barbaric  nature  of  his  decorations,  sur- 
prisingly picturesque  effects.  He  would,  for  instance, 
throw  a  light  upon  one  of  the  great  hanging-squares 
of  Chinese  temple  embroidery  and,  by  darkening  the 
rest  of  the  room,  obtain  a  really  magnificent  picture. 
All  this  is  simply  by  way  of  explaining  how  the  man 
happened  to  have  a  light  -  switchboard  in  a  place  so 
unusual  as  under  a  table. 

Buchanan  sat  quite  still  for  a  long  instant  after  he 
felt  that  intruding  presence.  He  was  thinking  very 
fast  and,  a  bit  to  his  own  surprise,  very  coolly.  In  par- 
ticular, he  was  trying  to  discover  the  exact  direction 
from  which  that  current  of  air  came.  Then  slowly, 
with  more  care  than  was  really  necessary,  he  put  out 
his  right  arm  under  the  shadow  of  the  table.  Neither 
his  head  nor  his  body  had  moved  a  hair's-breadth. 

In  an  instant  the  great  room  was  in  absolute,  black 
darkness,  a  darkness  which  stung  the  eyes  like  a  sud- 
den glare  of  light.  In  another  instant  Buchanan  was 
out  of  his  chair  and  crouching  to  the  floor  on  the 
farther  side  of  the  marble  table.  The  massive  base  of 
the  thing  was  an  absolute  protection  against  any 
assault  less  than  that  of  artillery. 

Then,  out  of  the  gloom,  a  light  shot  down  at  the  far 
side  of  the  chamber,  and  the  man  standing  there  beside 
an  open  window  dropped  something  which  fell  with  a 
crash  on  the  floor,  and  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands. 

48 


'  I    HAVE     YOU    COVERED.       COME 


WHERE    THE    OLD    GODS    SAT 

As  he  did  so  he  said,  "God!"  in  a  shaking  voice  which 
was  almost  a  sob.  It  is  reasonable  to  infer  that  this 
trick  with  the  lights  had,  at  least  for  the  moment, 
unnerved  him. 

"Stand  just  where  you  are,  please,"  said  Buchanan, 
safe  in  his  darkness.  His  voice,  he  found,  was  not 
quite  steady,  and  he  forced  a  little  laugh  into  it  to  lend 
it  countenance. 

"I  have  you  covered  with  my  pistol,"  he  explained. 
"No,  don't  pick  yours  up.  You  won't  need  it."  He 
touched  two  or  three  more  keys  of  the  switchboard, 
and  lights  burst  into  flower  about  the  room,  and  once 
more  the  reading-lamp  on  the  table,  behind  which  he 
stood,  glowed  like  a  moon  among  stars. 

"You  see  that  I  tell  the  truth,"  he  said.  "I  have 
you  covered.  Come  here." 

The  man  wavered  for  an  instant.  The  open  window 
was  close  behind,  and  a  single  leap  would  have  made  it. 
Then  he  came  slowly  across  the  room  towards  the  pistol- 
barrel  which  faced  him. 

"A-ah!"  said  Buchanan,  in  a  half  whisper.  "It's 
you!"  Down  one  side  of  the  man's  face,  from  cheek- 
bone nearly  to  jaw,  ran  a  scar,  white  across  the  color  of 
the  cheek,  albeit  that  was,  seemingly  by  nature,  pallid 
rather  than  sanguine.  Otherwise  the  man  was  a  lean 
man,  with  a  narrow  face,  smooth -shaven,  and  hard, 
blue  eyes.  There  were  two  short,  deep  creases  just  be- 
yond the  corners  of  his  mouth,  and  this  mouth  had  a 
cruel  look.  He  was  dressed  in  decent  serge,  neither 
new  nor  so  old  as  to  be  badly  worn. 

The  hard,  blue  eyes  did  not  blink  nor  shift  from  Bu- 
chanan's eyes,  and  they  expressed  neither  fear  nor  any 
other  emotion  whatever.  If,  for  a  moment,  while  those 
lights  were  playing  tricks,  the  man  had  been  unnerved, 

49 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

he  had  certainly  made  a  swift  and  entire  recovery. 
The  pistol  in  Buchanan's  hand  he  seemed  not  to  regard 
at  all. 

"It's  you,  is  it?"  said  Buchanan  again,  and  the  man 
said,  "Yes,"  and  relapsed  into  silence.  The  tone,  like 
the  eyes,  was  without  expression. 

"I  knew  you  were  still  about,"  Buchanan  went  on. 
"One  of  my — my  guests  saw  you  skulking  among  the 
trees  down  near  the  gate  this  afternoon,  and  told  me. 
I  meant  to  have  the  gardeners  put  on  watch  to-night, 
but  I  forgot  it." 

"  Oh,  they're  on  watch!"  said  the  man.  " Somebody 
set  them  at  it.  That  is,"  he  corrected,  carefully, 
"they're  more  or  less  on  watch." 

"But  not  quite  enough,  it  would  seem?" 

"No,  not  quite  enough." 

Buchanan  gave  a  little,  amused  laugh. 

"Won't  you  sit  down?"  he  said,  waving  a  hand 
towards  the  big  arm-chair  which  he  himself  had  been 
occupying  earlier.  "Sit  down  and  we'll  talk  it  over. 
I  enjoyed  your  little  call  yesterday.  I  found  you  enter- 
taining. I  have  no  reason  to  think  your  powers  have 
gone  off  since.  To  be  sure,  the  hour  is  late,  but  I  am 
not  in  the  least  sleepy,  and  I  take  it  you're  not,  either, 
or  you  wouldn't  be  climbing  in  at  my  windows."  He 
pulled  up  a  chair  for  himself  and  sat  down. 

"Ah,  now  we  shall  be  very  comfortable,  I  think," 
said  he  across  the  marble  table.  "With  all  due  apolo- 
gies, I  call  your  attention  to  the  fact  that  this  pistol  is 
ready  to  my  hand.  I  am  sure  you  will  not  force  me  to 
use  it."  The  man  said,  "No."  He  was  a  discourag- 
ing man  to  talk  to.  He  seemed  to  have  no  conversa- 
tion. 

Buchanan  pushed  the  decanter  across  the  table  and 
5° 


WHERE   THE    OLD    GODS    SAT 

drew  towards  himself  the  half-emptied  glass  which  he 
had  prepared  earlier  in  the  evening.  Then  he  filled  a 
pipe  from  the  tobacco-jar  at  his  elbow. 

"That  is  Scotch,"  he  said,  hospitably,  as  he  lighted 
his  pipe.  "I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  have  no  rye 
whiskey.  I  detest  it." 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  man  in  the  arm-chair.  "I 
never  drink  anything  but  water,  and  I  am  not  thirsty." 
His  hard,  indifferent  eyes  met  Buchanan's  sceptical 
smile,  and  a  little  flush  came  across  his  face.  It 
made  the  scar  stand  out  with  almost  startling  white- 
ness. 

"That  is  quite  true,"  he  insisted.  "I  seldom  tell 
lies."  The  other  gave  a  brief  nod. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said.  "  I  was  scarcely 
civil."  He  turned  a  bit  in  his  chair,  making  himself 
more  comfortable,  settling  himself,  as  it  were,  and  his 
face  had  altered  marvellously  from  its  former  expres- 
sion of  gloom  and  bitterness.  There  was  color  under 
the  cheek-bones — where  color  so  seldom  showed — and 
a  light  in  his  eyes.  He  gave  a  little  laugh,  which  be- 
spoke interest  and  a  hint  of  excitement. 

"  I  am  truly  glad  that  you  came  in,"  he  said,  puffing 
at  his  pipe.  "  I  was  dull — damnably  dull.  There  are 
no  words  for  how  dull  I  was.  Do  you,  in  your — in  the 
exercise  of  your  profession,  ever  feel  dull?  Do  you 
chance  to  know  what  it  is  like  to  feel  that,  unless  an 
absolute  change  takes  place  in  your  life — a  complete 
bouleversement — you  will  cut  your  throat  or  blow  your 
brains  out  from  sheer  weariness  of  spirit,  sheer  intoler- 
able abrasion  of  the  nerves?" 

The  man  in  the  arm-chair,  finger-tips  fixed  gravely 
together,  appeared  to  ponder  this. 

"No,"  he  said  at  last.  "No,  I  cannot  say  that  I 
Si 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

have  ever  felt  that.  You  see,  the — circumstances  are 
so  different,"  he  explained. 

"  Quite  so,"  agreed  Buchanan,  with  a  generous  wave. 
"Quite  so.  Still — " 

"There  is,"  pursued  the  man  in  the  arm-chair,  "a 
certain  variety  of  experience  in  my  existence  which,  I 
take  it,  yours  does  not  possess.  And  variety  lends 
spice  enough  to  my  life  to  make  it  quite  endurable." 
He  had  spoken  throughout  with  an  odd  correctness  of 
diction,  a  sort  of  conscious  care,  as  if  he  were  recalling, 
for  present  use,  a  mode  of  speech  perhaps  not  alien  to 
him  but  long  disused.  The  effect  was  curiously  dry 
and  pedantic. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  slowly,  picking  his  words,  "this 
world  is  a  very  interesting  place — if  you  look  about 
you.  You  can't  never  —  ever  —  tell  what  may  turn 
up  just  around  the  next  turn  of  the  road.  It  may 
be  good  or  it  may  be  bad,  but  that  does  not  mat- 
ter. It  will  be  different,  and  that's  what  a  man 
wants." 

"Yes!"  cried  Buchanan,  leaning  eagerly  over  the 
table.  His  eyes  were  very  bright.  "Yes,  by  Jove! 
You've  got  it!  You've  got  it!  That's  what  a  man 
wants.  'What  you're  after  is  to  turn  'em  all."1 

'"Turn  'em  all'?"  said  the  other  man. 

"  It  was  a  certain  poem  I  was  thinking  of,"  Buchan- 
an apologized.  "The  'Sestina  of  the  Tramp  Royal.' 
Somewhere  in  it  the  Tramp  Royal  says : 

"  'It's  like  a  book,  I  think,  this  bloomin'  world, 
Which  you  can  read  and  care  for  just  so  long, 
But  presently  you  feel  that  you  will  die 
Unless  you  get  the  page  you're  readin'  done, 
An'  turn  another — likely  not  so  good; 
But  what  you're  after  is  to  turn  'em  all.'" 
52 


WHERE    THE    OLD    GODS    SAT 

The  man  in  the  arm-chair  had  turned  his  hard  eyes 
upon  Buchanan's  face,  but  they  were  narrowed  a  bit 
and  frowning,  as  if  he  strove  to  remember  something. 
He  nodded. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  abstractedly,  "that's  me.  That's 
how  it  is."  He  passed  a  hand  across  his  brow,  still 
with  the  air  of  memory  searching  thought. 

"'Speakin'  in  general,"'  he  said,  slowly — 

"'Speakin'  in  general,  I  'ave  tried  'em  all — 
The  'appy  roads  that  takes  you  o'er  the  world. 
Speakin'  in  general,  I  'ave  found  'em  good, 
For  much  as  cannot  use  one  bed  too  long, 
But  must  get  'ence,  the  same  as  I  'ave  done, 
An'  go  observin'  matters  till  they  die.' " 

Buchanan  gave  a  sudden,  amazed  laugh. 

"Where  the  devil  did  you  get  that?"  he  cried. 
"Why,  that — that's  the  beginning  of  the  'Sestina'! 
That's  Kipling's  '  Sestina ' !"  But  the  man  in  the  arm- 
chair shook  his  head  a  bit  wearily. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "I  expect  I  must  'a' — 
must  have  read  it  somewhere — or  somebody  told  it  to 
me.  I  forget.  Anyhow,  that's  how  it  is."  And  Bu- 
chanan nodded,  sinking  back  again  in  his  chair.  The 
old  bitterness  began  to  come  over  him. 

"Yes,  that's  how  it  is.  That's  how  you  lucky  ones 
can  live.  As  for  me — "  He  touched  the  silly  nickelled 
and  pearl-garnished  pistol  which  lay  beside  him. 

"About  an  hour  before  you  came  in,"  he  said,  "I 
got  this  thing  out  of  its  case  with  some  vague  notion  of 
making  an  end  to  a  life  which  has  become  intolerable 
to  me.  I  dare  say  I  shouldn't  have  managed  it.  I 
dare  say  I'm  too  much  of  a  coward.  Of  one  thing  I'm 
certain" — his  voice  rose  bitterly — "I  have  not  the 

53 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

courage  to  go  back  there  to-morrow  morning — back  to 
my — to  my  friends  and  live  out  this  damned  masquer- 
ade to  its  finish.  I'm  too  much  of  a  coward  for  that, 
if  you  like.  I'm  smothered  here!"  he  cried;  "I'm  a 
prisoner  in  chains!  /  want  to  'try  'em  all — the  'appy 
roads  that  take  you  o'er  the  world!'  7  want  to  'get 
'ence'  and  'go  observin'  matters,'  but  I  can't.  My 
responsibilities  won't  let  me,  and  my  wife  won't  let  me, 
and  my  friends — if  I  have  a  friend — won't  let  me.  I 
can't  do  that  because  I'm  what  I  am,  and  I  can't  end 
it  all  because  I'm  what  I  am — a  coward.  Too  cowardly 
to  live,  too  cowardly  to  die.  What  remedy  can  you 
offer  for  that  case,  my  house-breaking  friend  ?" 

The  man  in  the  arm-chair  allowed  himself  a  moment 
of  grim  humor,  though  the  masklike  face  remained 
devoid  of  expression. 

"Look  away  long  enough  for  me  to  get  that  revol- 
ver," said  he.  "I'll  see  that  you  don't  have  no  more 
— any  more  —  troubles.  I  had  intended  to  do  that, 
anyhow.  I  knew  you  were  in  here,  and  I  was  going 
to  do  for  you  so  that  I  could  take  my  time  working." 

Buchanan  drew  back  with  a  little  shivering  intake 
of  the  breath. 

"  By  the  Lord,  you're  a — cold-blooded  fish!"  he  said, 
in  a  half  whisper.  Then  he  leaned  forward  again  with 
sudden  interest. 

"Tell  me,"  said  he,  "have  you  ever  killed  a  man?— 
in  cold  blood,  I  mean,  just  because  you  wanted  to  get 
him  out  of  the  way  ?  Have  you  ?" 

"What  if  I  have?"  said  the  man  in  the  arm-chair. 

"  Oh ,  nothing,  nothing !"  said  Buchanan.  "  Of  course, 
I'm  not  your  judge." 

"No,"  said  the  other,  indifferently.  "No,  you're 
not."  And  then,  as  Buchanan  dropped  back  into  his 

54 


WHERE    THE    OLD    GODS    SAT 

listless  silence,  gloomy  still,  the  hard,  blue  eyes  watched 
him  intently.  They  did  not  brighten  or  show  excite- 
ment, or  show  anything  else,  they  only  watched,  steady 
and  unwinking.  Once  the  man's  hand  began  to  steal 
out  across  the  table  towards  that  which  lay  glittering 
in  the  lamplight,  but  there  were  glasses  and  books  and 
the  decanter  and  other  objects  in  the  way.  Also  the 
table  was  broad,  and  so  the  hand  withdrew  once  more. 

"  I  want  to  lie  on  the  earth,"  said  Buchanan,  after  a 
long  time.  It  is  probable  that  he  did  not  know  he 
spoke  aloud.  "  I  want  to  be  wet  with  the  dew  and 
soaked  with  the  rain,  and  dried  again  with  the  sun.  I 
want  to  wake  with  the  sun  in  my  eyes.  I  want  to  go 
unwashed  and  uncombed.  I  want  to  be  free — free  !  I 
want  not  to  feel  that  next  week  or  next  month  I've  got 
to  stop  it  all  and  come  back  to  jail,  back  to  the  mario- 
nette show.  That's  what  I  want.  And  I  can't  —  I 
cant!"  he  said,  after  another  silence.  He  beat  his 
hands  feebly  upon  the  arms  of  the  chair.  "I  can't!" 
he  whimpered. 

"Why?"  said  the  man  across  the  table,  calmly. 

Buchanan  sat  up  with  a  jerk  and  frowned  at  him. 

"The  world's  out  there,"  pursued  the  man  in  the 
arm-chair.  "The  'appy  roads  is  out  there,  and  the 
sun  and  the  rain.  They're  free  to  everybody."  Bu- 
chanan waved  a  hand.  The  gesture  seemed  to  include 
the  magnificence  about  him  and  the  house  behind,  with 
its  sleeping  inmates. 

"And  this?"  said  he. 

"Chuck  it!"  said  the  man  in  the  arm-chair,  stifling  a 
yawn. 

Buchanan  stared  at  him. 

"Chuck  it!"  said  the  man  again. 

"My  God!"  said  Buchanan,  in  a  faint  whisper.     He 

5  55 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

stared  at  the  lean,  still  figure  and  the  cold  eyes  across 
from  him  for  a  long  time.  Then  he  turned  and  began 
to  walk  up  and  down.  Something  subconscious  in 
him,  something  which  was  on  watch,  warned  him  be- 
fore he  had  moved  away,  and  he  took  the  pistol  in 
his  hand  as  he  went.  The  figure  across  the  table, 
which  had,  all  at  once,  drawn  itself  up  tense  and  rigid, 
relaxed  again  with  a  little  sigh,  and  the  blue  eyes  fast- 
ened themselves  upon  those  calm,  imperturbable  eyes 
of  Buddha,  seated  in  his  shadows,  and  became  fixed 
there  as  if  in  a  trance. 

Buchanan  tramped  the  floor.  At  times  he  muttered 
under  his  breath,  but  the  words  were  unintelligible, 
Wellnigh  inarticulate.  At  times  his  free  hand  —  the 
hand  which  did  not  hold  the  pistol — waved  or  beat  the 
air  or  clinched  fiercely  in  some  hard -wrung  gesture. 
Once  he  halted  near  the  lighted  table  and  made  as  if 
to  speak,  but,  after  a  moment,  moved  away  again  to 
his  interminable  tramp  up  and  down,  up  and  down. 
At  last,  after,  it  may  be,  ten  minutes  of  this,  he  came 
to  a  halt  beside  the  other  man.  His  face  was  white 
and  drawn,  and  his  eyes  burned  strangely.  He  must 
have  been  under  very  great  strain. 

"But  how?"  he  demanded,  weakly.  "How?  I — I 
know  nothing  of  such  a  life.  I  should  be  helpless  as  a 
child.  It's  all  very  well  to  dream  about  and  long  for, 
but  practically  I  simply  should  not  be  able  to  get  on." 

"There,"  said  the  man  in  the  arm-chair,  "is  where 
/  come  in."  And  again  Buchanan  stared  at  him  in 
dull  incomprehension. 

"A-ah!"  he  said  at  last,  and  for  another  turn  or  two 
took  up  his  march. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  when  he  had  returned.  "Let 
us  talk  business  for  a  moment.  Believe  me,  I  do  not 

56 


WHERE    THE    OLD    GODS    SAT 

wish  to  insult  you  or  to  pry  into  your  affairs,  but  I 
should  like  to  ask  you  a  few  questions.  You  are,  I 
take  it,  from  your  mode  of  entering  this  room  to-night, 
a  professional  thief," 

"Yes,"  said  the  other  man,  without  emotion.  He 
looked  up  at  his  host  with  cold  curiosity. 

"You  came  here,"  Buchanan  continued,  "in  the 
hope  of  being  able  to  steal  money,  or  valuables  which 
you  could  convert  into  money.  Therefore,  money  is  a 
consideration  to  you." 

"Money,"  said  the  other  man,  "is  a  necessity  to  me. 
You  understate  the  case."  Buchanan  waved  an  im- 
patient hand. 

"I  have  in  this  room,"  he  said,  "safely  locked  in  a 
safe — which  I  fear  you  would  never  have  discovered, 
for  it  is  well  masked — something  over  a  thousand  dol- 
lars in  money — ten,  twenty,  and  fifty  dollar  bills.  I 
offer  you  one  thousand  dollars  to  leave  this  house  with 
me  to-night  and  spend  one  month  in  my  company 
tramping  the  roads,  teaching  me  how  to  beg  my  bread, 
how  to  live  in  the  open,  and  how  to  behave  myself  when 
I  meet  others  of  my  profession." 

The  hard,  still  face  before  him  for  the  first  time  gave 
signs  of  feeling.  The  feeling  appeared  to  be  unmiti- 
gated amazement. 

"Are  you — serious ?"  demanded  the  man  in  the  arm- 
chair. 

Buchanan's  white  face  writhed  suddenly,  and  some- 
thing like  a  sob  broke  from  him. 

"My  God,  do  I  look  as  if  I  were  joking?"  he  cried. 
"I  tell  you  I  can  bear  this  life  no  longer.  I  shall  find 
some  miserable  scrap  of  courage  and  blow  my  brains 
out  if  I  do  not  get  away  from  it  all.  Don't  you  under- 
stand? Don't  you  understand?  You  said  you  did. 

57 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

It  was  that  which  made  me  say  what  I  have  said.     I 
thought  you  understood.    I  thought  you  felt  what  I  feel. ' ' 

"Oh  yes,"  said  the  other,  "I  know  how  you  feel, 
but — but  what  do  you  want  to  tramp  for?  What  do 
you  want  to  beg  for  ?  You  could  wait  until  to-morrow 
and  then  get  together  a  great  deal  of  money — how  much 
money  could  you  get  together? — and  you  could  slip 
away  to  the  other  side  of  the  world  and  live  like  a 
prince  under  another  name.  For  God's  sake,  what  do 
you  want  to  beg  for?" 

Buchanan  turned  angrily.  "That's  my  affair,"  he 
said.  "  In  time  I  may  wish  to  do  what  you  say.  For 
the  present  I  wish  to  live  close  down  against  the  earth 
— unwashed,  uncombed,  as  I  have  said.  Put  it  that 
it  is  a  mad  whim,  if  you  like.  Put  it  anyhow  you  wish 
to.  The  point  is,  will  you  help  me  for  one  thousand 
dollars?" 

The  other  man  did  not  immediately  answer.  He  had 
lowered  his  eyes  once  more,  and  they  seemed  to  com- 
mune with  Buddha,  beyond  in  the  shadows.  His  face 
was  again  a  mask — expressionless. 

"If  you  require  other  inducements,"  said  Buchanan, 
"remember  that  I  am  condoning  your  entrance  here  as 
a  thief.  Some  men  would  have  shot  you  down  at  once, 
if  they  had  been  in  my  place.  Remember  that,  if  I 
pleased,  I  could  ring  an  electric-bell  now  and  servants 
would  come  and  take  you  in  charge,  and  to-morrow 
you  would  be  in  jail.  I  do  not  like,"  he  explained, 
half  apologetically,  "to  make  use  of  threats,  but  I  am 
rather — desperate,  I  am  ready  to  use  any  methods 
which  present  themselves." 

The  man  in  the  arm-chair  nodded. 

"  I  am  not  forgetting  that  you  didn't  shoot,"  he  said. 
And,  after  a  moment,  he  gave  a  little  sigh. 

58 


WHERE    THE    OLD    GODS    SAT 

"When  do  we  start?"  he  asked. 

Buchanan's  voice  shook. 

"Now!"  said  he — "now!  What  time  is  it?  Two- 
fifteen!  I  must  change  into  some  other  clothes.  I 
have  them  yonder  in  that  large  wardrobe  thing." 

He  crossed  the  room  quickly  to  the  wardrobe — a 
great  thing  made  of  panels  from  a  dismantled  Venetian 
palace — and  he  laid  the  pistol  on  a  chair  near  him  and 
proceeded  to  change  from  his  evening  clothes  into  some 
worn  tweeds,  with  heavy,  serviceable  boots. 

"This  is  my  world,  as  you  might  say,"  he  explained, 
across  the  space.  "  This  room  is  my  world.  I  seldom 
leave  it,  and  so  I  keep  a  few  clothes  here.  It  is  lucky 
I  do." 

He  rolled  the  discarded  dress  clothes  into  a  sort  of 
packet,  and,  after  a  moment's  search,  brought  out  a 
small  game-bag  which  hung  in  the  wardrobe.  Into 
this  he  put  the  garments  and  slung  the  strap  over  one 
shoulder. 

"I  have  a  fancy,"  he  said,  laughing,  "to  disappear, 
as  it  were,  into  thin  air,  leaving  nothing  telltale  behind 
me.  So  I  shall  carry  these  clothes  away  and  hide  them 
somewhere — lose  them." 

Next  he  went  to  a  very  beautiful  Japanese  cabinet, 
with  doors  of  gilded  and  painted  wood  tracery,  and 
opened  it  and  pulled  aside  a  curtain,  and  the  door  of  a 
safe  appeared.  He  opened  this,  in  turn,  and  took  from 
it  a  small  parcel  which  was  bound  with  yellow  bands. 
The  parcel  he  put  into  the  pocket  of  his  coat. 

"Now  we're  ready,"  said  he,  and  came  forward  once 
more  to  the  table  where  the  lamp  stood  and  where  his 
visitor  sat  in  the  arm-chair.  The  man  rose. 

"  How  about  money  for  yourself  ?"  he  asked.  "  You 
can't  go  quite  penniless.  At  least,  it  would  be  foolish." 

59 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

"Oh,"  said  Buchanan,  "I  have  five  or  six  hundred 
dollars  here  in  my  pocket  besides  your  thousand."  It 
is  possible  that  this  was  just  what  the  other  man  had 
wished  to  know,  for  the  lids  drooped  over  his  hard,  blue 
eyes  for  the  fraction  of  a  second. 

"And  afterwards?"  he  pursued.  "What  if  you 
should  want  a  large  sum — to  do  as  I  said,  to  travel,  or 
something  like  that  ?  How  are  you  going  to  get  it  ?" 

"Ahl"  said  Buchanan.  "That  is  worth  thinking 
of."  Then,  after  a  moment,  he  nodded. 

"That's  all  right,"  he  said.  "I  know  how  to  man- 
age. I  shall  be  able  to  get  all  the  money  I  want.  I 
have  a  way.  Off  with  us  now!  Good  God,  must  we 
wait  here  forever?  I'm  sick  to  be  gone.  Everything 
here  is  hideous  to  me.  Off  with  us!" 

The  other  man  regarded  him  with  narrowed  eyes. 

"You're  not  going  to  leave  any  word?"  he  said,  in 
an  odd  tone.  "You're  going  like  this,  without  letting 
them  know  what  has  become  of  you?  You  said  you 
had  a  wife.  Aren't  you  going  to — " 

"No,  I'm  not!"  broke  in  Buchanan,  fiercely.  "That's 
my  affair;  I'll  go  as  I  choose.  Let  'em  think  I'm  dead 
if  they  like — or  anything  else."  The  blood  rushed  to 
his  head  in  a  sudden  spasm  of  hatred  and  bitterness. 

"Let  'em  think  what  they  like  and  do  what  they 
like!"  he  cried.  "I'm  done  with  them."  His  face 
twisted  into  its  grin  of  malice. 

"For  once,"  he  said,  sneering,  "I  shall  be  of  interest 
to  my  friends.  For  the  first  time.  What  are  you 
smiling  about?" 

"I  was  just  remembering,"  said  the  other  man, 
"what  you  said,  not  long  since,  about  my  being  a  cold- 
blooded fish.  I  was  just  thinking  of  that.  That 'sail." 
He  turned  and  led  the  way  across  to  the  open  window. 

60 


WHERE    THE    OLD    GODS    SAT 

Near  it,  he  stooped  for  the  pistol  that  he  had  dropped 
there,  but  Buchanan  cried  out  sharply  behind  him,  and 
he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  went  on  empty-handed. 

The  two  dropped  silently  out  of  the  window  to  the 
turf  below,  and  stood  there,  listening.  There  was  no 
sound  save  the  wind  and,  presently,  the  whistle  of  a 
train  very  far  away.  The  night  had  turned  cooler, 
almost  chill,  and  a  strong  wind  bore  in  from  the  sea, 
driving  a  rack  of  clouds  overhead,  so  that  the  moon- 
light— the  moon  was  low  in  the  west  by  this  time — 
came  through  only  intermittently,  in  sudden  floods  of 
silver. 

"There's  no  one  about,"  said  Buchanan,  in  a  whis- 
per. "The  gardeners  will  have  gone  to  bed  long  since." 
But  as  he  spoke  there  came  from  the  darkness  beyond 
them  a  sound  of  pattering  feet.  They  wheeled  to  face 
the  sound,  and  then  Buchanan  broke  into  a  nervous, 
gasping  laugh. 

"It's  only  a  dog,"  he  explained.  "One  of  the  dogs 
has  been  left  at  large." 

The  beast  came  to  Buchanan's  feet,  peering  and  sniff- 
ing, and  then,  with  a  little  whine  of  recognition,  began 
to  jump  about  him  and  to  lick  his  hands.  It  was  a 
great  Borzoi,  a  beautiful  animal  of  preternatural  dig- 
nity, and  for  some  obscure  reason  it  loved  its  master. 
Probably  it  was  the  only  creature  in  the  world  upon 
whose  love  Buchanan  could  count. 

He  spoke  to  it  in  a  low  tone,  patting  its  head  with 
his  hand,  and  then  sent  it  away.  It  went  immediately, 
turning  back  a  wistful  head  as  if  it  realized  that  some- 
thing was  wrong. 

Then  the  two  men  started  down  the  long  slope  of 
the  gardens,  past  the  artificial  pond,  with  its  summer- 
house  and  pergola,  and  so  gained  the  dark  shelter  of 

61 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

that  double  row  of  firs  which  hemmed  the  drive. 
Down  by  the  gates,  a  full  half-mile  from  the  house, 
they  halted  and  looked  about  them  for  means  of  exit. 
The  gates  were,  of  course,  closed,  and  they  were  well- 
nigh  impossible  to  climb,  for  they  were  made  of  verti- 
cal iron  bars  which  broke  into  an  ornamental  scroll 
only  at  top  and  bottom. 

"This  tree  will  do,"  said  Buchanan,  finally.  "Up 
with  you!" 

A  cedar  grew  almost  against  the  twelve-foot  wall, 
and  its  lower  branches  were  strong  enough  to  bear  a 
man's  weight.  The  man  with  the  blue  eyes  went  up 
and  over  nimbly.  Buchanan  heard  the  soft  thud  of 
his  feet  as  he  dropped  on  the  other  side,  and  then  him- 
self made  ready  to  mount.  But  first  he  turned  and 
took  one  last  look  at  Buchanan  Lodge.  The  great 
pile  lay  upon  its  height  of  ground,  black  and  squat  and 
still  against  the  torn  sky.  There  was  no  sign  of  life 
about  it  save  that,  even  as  the  man  turned  to  look,  a 
single  light,  a  tiny  pin-point  of  yellow,  like  a  star,  broke 
out  in  one  of  the  windows,  high  up  near  the  rear  of  the 
house.  The  servants  were  quartered  there.  In  an- 
other instant  it  was  gone,  and  the  lodge  was  dark 
again  —  a  blot  of  gloom  against  the  streaked  sky. 
Some  vague  pang  of  fear,  of  regret,  of  loneliness  may 
have  waked  in  the  man  at  that  last  moment,  for  he 
drew  a  quick  sigh,  and  his  face,  in  the  moonlight,  was 
troubled.  Then  he  turned  and,  as  nimbly  as  his  com- 
panion had  done,  mounted  to  the  wall's  top  and 
dropped  over  upon  the  turf  by  the  roadside. 

They  went  along  the  road  eastward,  walking  rapidly 
and  in  silence  for  something  over  a  mile;  then,  beyond 
the  last  limits  of  the  Buchanan  estate,  turned  once 
more  towards  the  sea,  and  for  another  mile  traversed 

62 


WHERE    THE    OLD    GODS    SAT 

the  wind-swept  upland  which  is  open  and  barren  there. 
Fences  and  low  stone- walls  they  had  to  climb,  and 
thickets  of  low  shrub  growth  they  had  to  make  their 
way  through,  but  they  went  silently,  without  an  un- 
necessary word. 

They  were  bound  for  Brentford,  where  they  were  to 
take  the  west-bound  local  train  at  five  in  the  morning, 
but  on  the  way  they  were  to  stop  at  a  certain  aban- 
doned and  partly  demolished  farm  hut  under  the  brow 
of  a  wood,  and  near  an  old  stone  quarry,  where  the  man 
with  the  blue  eyes  had  been  making  his  headquarters. 
There  he  was  to  pick  up  his  scanty  kit,  and  Buchanan 
was  to  shave  off  his  beard  and  mustache. 

For  a  long  distance,  as  they  traversed  that  desolate 
moor,  they  had  to  walk  in  single  file  along  a  very  nar- 
row foot-path,  which  was  flanked  by  high -growing 
thistle  and  wild  raspberry  and  such.  Buchanan,  in 
his  eagerness,  walked  ahead.  It  was  here  that  the 
other  man  spoke  for  the  first  time  since  they  had 
started. 

"When  do  I  get  my  thousand  dollars?"  he  asked. 
Buchanan  laughed  back  over  his  shoulder. 

"At  the  end  of  the  month,"  he  said.  "You  see,  you 
can  trust  me,  but  I'm  not  altogether  sure  that  I  can 
trust  you.  You  might  leave  me  in  the  lurch.  Yes,  I 
think  I'll  hold  the  money  for  a  bit." 

To  that  the  other  man  made  no  answer.  He  only 
plodded  on  behind  his  companion.  But  it  may  be 
taken  for  granted  that  he  was  thinking.  Indeed,  when- 
ever the  moonlight  broke  through  that  rack  of  driving 
cloud  Buchanan  might  have  seen,  had  he  turned  his 
head,  that  those  hard,  unwinking  eyes  were  very  stead- 
ily fixed  upon  his  back  just  between  the  shoulders,  and 
that  the  man's  face  was  graver  than  common,  grave 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

enough  to  deserve  the  statement  that  at  last  it  ex- 
pressed something. 

One  may  hazard  a  guess  at  his  thoughts.  One  may 
at  least  risk  the  opinion  that  they  dwelt  upon  that 
thousand  dollars.  Thousand?  Nay,  fifteen  hundred 
— sixteen.  Had  not  Buchanan  said  that  he  had  five 
or  six  hundred  for  his  own  use  ?  Sixteen  hundred  dol- 
lars !  A  sum,  that !  A  sum  to  one  who  lives  from  hand 
to  mouth  and  always  in  terror  of  the  law.  Sixteen 
hundred  dollars!  Sixteen  hundred  now  ready  to  the 
hand,  or — a  thousand  after  a  month's  absurd  tramping 
about.  Which  to  choose  ? 

The  unwinking  eyes  never  stirred  from  Buchanan's 
back,  the  feet  plodded  doggedly  on  in  the  other  man's 
tracks,  neither  losing  nor  gaining  ground,  but  one  hand 
slipped  into  the  jacket-pocket  and  withdrew  a  curious 
knife  —  a  hunting-knife.  The  other  hand  slowly  and 
silently  opened  the  blade.  It  was  a  long  blade — nearly 
six  inches  long.  Then  hand  and  knife  settled  back 
into  the  pocket  together. 

They  were  near  the  stone  quarry  by  this  time,  and 
turned  off  away  from  the  sea  to  skirt  its  precipitous 
edge.  It  was  an  old  quarry,  and  long  since  abandoned. 
Turf  had  crept  over  the  ancient  cuttings,  wherever  turf 
could  cling,  and  little  gay  flowers  and  gnarled  shrubs 
had  grown  up  out  of  the  earth-filled  crevices.  Still,  the 
weather-stained  rock  was  for  the  most  part  clear,  clean, 
and  white  under  the  flashes  of  moonlight,  and,  down  in 
the  depths,  a  hundred  feet  or  more  below  ground,  pools 
of  water  gleamed  and  winked. 

"  A  good  place  for  my  dress  clothes,"  said  Buchanan, 
and,  loosing  the  strap  from  his  shoulder,  threw  the  bag 
over  the  edge  of  the  cliff.  Some  distance  below  it 
struck  a  ledge,  for  there  was  a  rattle  of  loose  stones, 

64 


WHERE    THE    OLD    GODS    SAT 

then  a  tiny,  dull  splash.  The  packet  had  found  one  of 
those  mirroring  pools  and  was  safe  from  the  eye  of 
man. 

"You  wouldn't  care  to  give  me  the  money  now — 
to-night?"  said  the  man  who  walked  behind,  gently. 

Again  Buchanan  laughed. 

"No,  I  shouldn't,"  said  he.  "What  a  fool  I'd  be, 
eh  ?"  Just  then  he  stumbled  and  nearly  fell,  and  said: 
"The  devil!  One  of  my  boot-laces  is  untied.  Wait  a 
bit,"  and  bent  forward  on  one  knee  to  tie  it.  He  had 
shoved  the  pistol  into  a  side  pocket.  Behind  him, 
though  he  did  not  see,  the  other  man  had  stepped  a 
pace  closer  and  both  his  hands  were  hidden. 

It  was  just  as  Buchanan  started  to  rise  that  the  knife 
caught  him  under  one  shoulder-blade  —  an  ill-driven 
stroke,  because  his  back  was  turning  at  the  time,  but 
deep. 

Buchanan  coughed  and  fell  forward  on  his  hands 
and  knees.  After  a  moment,  with  a  great  struggle,  he 
forced  himself  up  again  into  a  crouching  posture — then 
to  his  feet.  The  other  man  stood  away. 

"  I  didn't — shoot  you  when — when  I — could  have," 
said  Buchanan,  swaying.  He  coughed  again,  a  wet 
cough  this  time,  and  put  his  hands  to  his  breast  as  if 
he  suffered  pain  there.  Then,  all  at  once,  his  knees 
gave  under  him  and  all  his  body  seemed  to  crumple 
into  a  limp  mass,  and  he  went  down  and  lay  very  still. 

The  other  man  stood  apart.  He  hid  his  face  with 
his  arms  and  sobbed  with  great,  strangling  sobs.  So 
it  seems  that  he  was  capable  of  emotion  after  all.  He 
sobbed  for  some  moments,  with  his  face  hidden,  and 
once  or  twice  he  spoke,  but  the  words  were  hardly 
audible,  certainly  not  coherent. 

Then,  presently,  he  shook  himself  violently  and  took 

65 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

his  arms  from  his  face  and  looked  before  him ;  and  he 
shrieked  like  a  frightened  animal,  for  the  body  of  the 
man  he  had  stabbed  was  not  there. 

It  was  the  sound  of  pebbles  and  loose  earth  bounding 
down  the  precipice  of  the  quarry  that  told  him  what 
had  happened — that  the  overhanging  shelf  of  ground 
had  given  way  under  the  body  and  plunged  with  it  into 
those  far  depths. 

He  threw  himself  down  and  crawled  to  the  edge. 
There  was  no  more  danger  now — firm  rock  was  under 
him.  He  lay  shaking  and  gasping,  and  stared  down 
into  blackness,  waiting  for  a  flash  of  moonlight.  He 
thought  he  waited  hours.  When  it  came,  whitening 
the  sheer  walls  of  rock,  it  lit  those  stagnant  pools  far 
below.  It  threw  a  ghostly,  silvery  sheen  upon  the 
shelves  near  where  he  lay,  but  the  silent  depths  were 
wells  of  inky  gloom.  And  they  hid  their  prey — their 
prey  and  his. 

The  moon  went  under  a  cloud,  and  he  waited  again, 
prone,  trembling,  for  he  said  to  himself  that  perhaps 
the  first  flash  was  a  faint  one.  Again  he  thought  that 
he  waited  for  hours.  His  eyes  ached  with  straining  in 
the  dark.  A  second  flash  of  moonlight  came,  longer 
this  time,  undeniably  clear  and  bright.  But  those  wells 
of  blackness  hid  their  prey.  No  moonlight  could  pierce 
their  profundity. 

They  seemed  to  the  man  who  lay  there  staring  to 
mock  at  him,  to  defy  him.  Some  cold,  intangible  hor- 
ror, something  damp  and  deadly  and  graveyardish 
seemed  to  reach  up  out  of  the  gulf — seemed  to  press 
clammily  against  his  drawn  face — seemed  to  slip  icy 
fingers  about  his  working  throat.  His  teeth  began  to 
chatter,  and  he  thought  that  presently  he  screamed, 
but  it  was  only  a  voiceless  gasp. 

66 


WHERE    THE    OLD    GODS    SAT 

Then,  after  a  bit,  when  he  had  lain  for  a  time  shiver- 
ing, his  face  flat  upon  the  turf,  strength  for  a  moment 
came  to  him  and  he  made  a  mighty  effort  and  struggled 
to  his  feet  and  ran — ran  sobbing  and  cursing  and  weep- 
ing through  the  night.  He  was  not  habitually  a  ner- 
vous man,  as  may  have  appeared;  he  was  almost  as 
far  from  that  as  a  man  may  be ;  but  on  this  night  fear 
had  him  by  the  heart — fear  unspeakable,  coming  up 
like  a  deadly  mist  out  of  that  black  pit  of  horror,  and 
he  wept  like  a  child,  and  cursed  like  a  madman,  and 
babbled  like  both  together. 

He  ran  as  far  as  the  sea-cliff,  and  dropped  there,  with 
his  face  to  the  rushing  wind.  It  seemed  to  him  in  his 
panic  that  no  power  of  earth  or  hell  could  drag  him 
back  to  the  pit  where  Buchanan  lay  crushed,  with  a 
knife  wound  in  the  back  and  sixteen  hundred  dollars 
in  the  pocket  of  his  coat. 

Sixteen  hundred  dollars! 

In  half  an  hour  he  was  again  hanging  over  the  place 
— white  -  faced,  shaking,  wrestling  with  naked  fear. 
Another  hour,  and  he  was  still  there,  sobbing,  cursing 
in  the  moonlight.  Had  any  watched  they  must  have 
thought  the  man  a  maniac. 

But  when  at  length  dawn  came,  pallid  and  gray, 
bringing  a  mist  of  rain,  it  found  no  one  on  the  brink 
of  the  old  quarry.  The  place  was  empty  and  still. 
Had  the  man  taken  his  courage  between  his  teeth  and 
descended  ? — on  the  far  side  of  the  excavation  the  way 
was  easy — or  had  that  grisly  terror  driven  him,  raving 
and  empty-handed,  away? 

The  dawn  had  no  answer.  There  was  no  man  to  be 
seen.  Those  inky  gulfs  were  black  even  by  daylight, 
so  they  might  still  have  been  guarding  their  secret, 
holding  their  prey.  But  no  one  seemed  at  all  curious 

67 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

about  it,  for  no  one  ever  came  there  to  investigate. 
Men  shunned  the  place  because  it  looked  unwholesome, 

In  the  course  of  time,  more  rain  fell  into  the  pools, 
and  more  grass  grew,  and  little  gay  flowers,  but  no  one 
can  bear  witness  that  he  ever  saw  a  small,  lean  man, 
with  a  hard,  scarred  face  and  hard,  blue  eyes  loitering 
in  the  neighborhood  or  acting  as  if  the  quarry  inter- 
ested him. 

The  man  with  the  blue  eyes  seemed  to  have  disap- 
peared as  effectually  as  did  Herbert  Buchanan,  of  Bu- 
chanan Lodge.  But  while  Buchanan's  case  interested 
a  whole  country-side,  and,  through  the  press,  a  whole 
nation,  it  might  reasonably  be  presumed  that  the  other 
man's  case  interested  very  few  people,  if  any. 

However,  presumptions  are  at  best  uncertain  and 
fallible  things.  It  is  the  unpresumed  which  works  your 
comedy  and  your  tragedy. 


BOOK    II 


THE    NEXT    DAY 

IN  these  days  of  a  cheap,  eager,  and  over-plenteous 
press  the  seeker  after  notoriety  has  fallen  upon  evil 
times.  He  will,  to  be  sure,  like  the  dog,  have  his  day, 
but  he  will  have  no  more.  You  may  loot  a  bank  or, 
Othello-like,  smother  your  wife  with  a  pillow,  or  you 
may  hack  her  to  bits  and  strew  her  about  the  streets, 
and  the  papers,  morning  and  evening,  will  hail  you 
with  joy;  but  to-morrow  you  must  give  place  to  the 
gentleman  who  has  blown  up  his  sovereign  with  a 
bomb,  or  to  the  lady  who  has  found  a  habit  of  throw- 
ing vitriol  about  over  the  too  -  prepossessing  features 
of  her  friends.  In  an  age  when  with  our  morning 
coffee  we  thrill  over  at  least  one  sensation  of  the  first 
class,  six  of  the  second,  and  a  hundred  of  the  paltry 
sort,  no  one  sensation  may  hope  to  survive  more  than 
a  few  fleeting  hours. 

The  Buchanan  disappearance  case  was  no  exception 
to  this  rule.  It  had,  of  course,  out  of  courtesy  to  the 
social  prominence  of  those  concerned,  to  be  included 
among  the  sensational  "stories"  of  the  first  class.  In- 
deed, for  at  least  three  days  after  the  meagre  facts 
were  put  into  the  hands  of  the  police  and  so  trans- 
mitted to  the  press,  the  affair  convulsed  the  breakfast- 
tables  of  a  nation.  But  since  only  those  meagre  facts 
were  to  be  had — garnished,  of  course,  by  the  wildest 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

and  most  magnificently  imaginative  theories  —  and 
since  the  efforts  of  the  detectives,  both  professional 
and  amateur,  brought  nothing  more  to  light,  the  mill- 
ions of  breakfast  -  tables  very  naturally  lost  interest. 
Besides,  at  just  that  time  a  lady  financier  happened 
to  come  a  most  astonishing  and  sensational  cropper, 
so  poor  Buchanan  was  forgotten,  and  the  world  knew 
him  no  more. 

That  is  to  say,  the  world  at  large  forgot  him.  His 
own  little  world's  memory  was  better — somewhat — 
the  world  which  had  known  him,  and  had  known  his 
wife,  and  had  shaken  its  head  over  their  marriage — no 
happy  one  as  he  who  ran  might  read.  Then  presently 
even  these  forgot — all  but  a  few — forgot  everything 
save  that  when  they  met  Beatrix  Buchanan  they 
vaguely  recalled  there  was  something  queer.  Had 
she  been  divorced,  or  had  there  been  a  scandal  ?  Oh 
yes,  her  husband  had  disappeared.  A  strange  man, 
better  out  of  the  way. 

The  few  finally  left  out  of  this  process  of  elimination 
were  those  who  loved  the  woman,  a  little,  faithful  body 
who  stood  by  her  during  the  first  trying  days  and  ever 
after,  and  strove  their  poor  best  to  make  the  way 
easier  to  her  feet,  the  night  less  dark  to  her  straining 
eyes. 

Buchanan's  disappearance  was  so  absolute,  so  baf- 
fling, so  wholly  without  trace,  and,  above  all,  so  wholly 
without  apparent  motive. 

If  angels  who  loved  him — untenable  theory — or  devils 
who  had  a  grudge  to  pay  out — more  like — had  whisked 
him,  body  and  bones,  up  out  of  his  barbaric  chamber 
that  night  into  thin  air,  he  could  not  more  utterly 
have  quitted  the  ken  of  man. 

It  seems  that  it  was,  quite  naturally,  his  valet  who 
72 


THE    NEXT    DAY 

first  discovered  his  absence.  This  man,  a  faithful  fel- 
low who  had  been  in  Buchanan's  service  for  some 
years,  went  to  bed,  after  his  custom,  about  one  o'clock 
on  that  fateful  night.  Prior  to  doing  so  he  made 
everything  ready  in  his  master's  sleeping-room,  and 
left  lights  there.  He  did  not  wait  up,  because  Bu- 
chanan often  sat  very  late  in  his  strange  museum,  and 
wished  no  assistance  when  he  at  last  came  up-stairs. 

It  seems  that  about  eight  the  next  morning  the  man 
went  to  his  master's  room  to  prepare  the  bath  and  lay 
out  clothes.  Much  to  his  surprise,  he  found  the  door 
ajar  as  he  had  left  it,  the  lights  still  going,  and  the  bed 
untouched.  He^said  afterwards  that  at  this  time  he 
felt  no  alarm,  because  he  thought  that  the  master  had 
fallen  asleep  over  his  reading  below,  and  had  slept 
through  the  night  in  his  chair.  Alarm  came  when  the 
man,  descending  and  cautiously  penetrating  that  for- 
bidden chamber,  found  it  empty — lights  going  there, 
too  (both  rooms  were  on  that  side  of  the  house  oppo- 
site to  the  long  drive  and  the  gates,  and  that  is  why 
the  place  had  been  quite  dark  to  Buchanan  as  he 
stood  by  the  wall  at  two  in  the  morning  and  looked 
back  for  that  last  time).  Then,  the  man  said,  fear 
quaked  in  him — -unreasoning  fear,  for  his  master 
might  well  have  been  in  some  other  part  of  the  house. 
He  said  that  that  great,  shadowy  room,  with  its  ancient 
gods  and  its  contorted  monsters  and  its  gloomy  cor- 
ners, seemed  suddenly  full  of  a  strange  horror — some- 
thing chill  and  deathly.  He  could  not  say  why,  but 
when  he  left  the  place  he  ran,  and  the  back  of  his  head 
felt  cold. 

Inside  the  house,  in  the  hall,  he  came  upon  Mr. 
Powers.  Mr.  Powers  was  wending  a  ponderous  way  up 
to  his  mistress's  sitting-room  to  submit  the  luncheon 

73 


BUCHANAN'S  WIFE 

and  dinner  menus  and  take  his  orders  for  the  day.  To 
him  the  valet,  shaking  still  and  short  of  breath,  told 
his  tale. 

"You're  an  ass!"  said  Mr.  Powers,  with  scorn. 
"The  mawster  'as  slep'  in  'is  'eathen  hedifice  yonder, 
an'  'as  stepped  hout  into  the  garden  for  a  breath  of 
hair  before  'e  'as  'is  tub.  You're  a  silly  ass,  my  man." 
The  valet  heard  these  words  of  wisdom  through  in 
patience. 

"In  'is  hevenin'  clothes — an'  leavin'  the  lights  ago- 
ing?" he  inquired,  when  Mr.  Powers  had  finished. 
The  butler  stared  for  an  instant,  and  said,  "My 
Gawd!"  Then  he  laid  his  papers  down  on  a  near-by 
chair. 

"Let's  'ave  a  look,"  said  he.  The  valet  began  to 
shiver  again. 

"I'd  rather  not,"  he  hesitated,  but  Mr.  Powers  so 
far  unbent  as  to  curse  at  him,  and  so,  tiptoeing  softly 
— they  knew  not  why — the  two  traversed  the  little 
narrow  passageway  and  entered  Buchanan's  "  'eathen 
hedifice."  The  valet,  in  his  frightened  haste,  had 
touched  nothing.  The  electric  lights  were  still  on, 
burning  dim  and  yellow  against  the  faint  daylight 
which  slanted  down  from  the  clere-story  windows. 

Mr.  Powers  emitted  a  grunt,  which  may  be  taken  by 
way  of  tribute  to  the  eery  atmosphere  of  the  place — 
its  shadowy  weirdness.  He  crossed  to  the  big  table 
in  the  centre. 

"  'Ere's  where  'e  sat,"  said  Mr.  Powers,  less  haughty 
confidence  in  his  tone,  less  in  his  bearing  of  that  di- 
vinity which  doth  hedge  a  king.  "  'Ere's  'is  glawss — • 
'alf  empty.  An'  'ere's  'is  pipe — 'alf  smoked  out.  So 
far,  so  good!  Now  what?"  Mr.  Powers's  eagle  eye 
roamed  the  shadows,  but  half-emptied  glass  and  half- 

74 


THE    NEXT    DAY 

smoked  pipe  seemed  to  be  all  that  was  left  of  Herbert 
Buchanan. 

"No  hother  remains?"  demanded  the  butler.  The 
other  man  winced. 

"  I  don't  like  that  word,  sir,"  he  said,  uneasily.  "It 
— it  'as  hunpleasant  associations.  Beggin'  your  par- 
don, sir!" 

"My  man — "  began  Mr.  Powers,  ponderously,  but 
stopped  between  two  words  and  seemed  to  think  bet- 
ter of  it. 

"Do  these  'ere  windows  hopen?"  he  asked.  He 
crossed  the  room  and  pushed  at  one  of  them.  Oddly 
enough,  it  was  the  very  window  out  of  which  Bu- 
chanan and  the  man  with  the  blue  eyes  had  dropped 
some  six  hours  before.  It  was  a  French  window, 
opening  like  a  double  door  outward  and  fitted  with  a 
trumpery  catch  which  fastened,  again  like  a  door, 
automatically.  That  gale  of  wind  which  had  been 
raging  during  the  night  had  blown  the  window  shut, 
and  the  catch  had  snapped  into  place.  Nature  itself 
played  into  the  fugitive's  hand. 

An  under-gardener  was  passing  near-by  about  his 
business,  and  Mr.  Powers  called  to  him. 

"  'As  Mr.  Buchanan  been  in  the  gardens  this  morn- 
ing, my  man?"  he  demanded.  The  man  laughed. 

"  On  a  wet  day  like  this  'ere,  sir  ?"  said  he.  "  Gawd 
bless  me,  no,  sir! — not  as  the  master  'ardly  ever  does 
look  at  the  gardens  nowadays,  though.  'E  wouldn't 
know  if  there  weren't  no  gardens." 

"Send  one  of  the  grooms  'ere  from  the  stables,"  said 
Mr.  Powers,  frowning,  and  presently  the  groom  came 
running  and  touched  his  cap. 

"Mr.  Buchanan  been  in  the  stables  this  morning?" 
asked  the  butler. 

75 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

"No,  sir,"  said  the  groom,  and  at  something  he  saw 
in  the  other's  face  began  to  stare. 

"Beg  pardon,  sir!"  he  said.  "Anythink  wrong, 
sir?" 

"That  will  do,  my  man!"  said  Mr.  Powers,  and 
turned  away  from  the  window. 

"Well?"  demanded  the  valet,  white  -  faced.  Mr. 
Powers  allowed  himself  an  angry  oath. 

"Stop  your  ballyshivering!"  he  said.  "The  maws- 
ter's  gone  for  a  tramp,  that's  what.  My  Gawd,  if  a 
gentleman  can't  take  a  bit  of^a  breather  before  'is 
breakfast — " 

"Leavin'  the  lights  agoing!"  said  the  valet  once 
more.  "In  'is  hevenin'  clothes,  an'  in  a  drizzle  of 
rain!" 

"Oh,  you  be  damned!"  cried  Mr.  Powers,  rudely. 

But  ten  minutes  later,  up  in  his  mistress's  pretty 
rose-and -white  sitting-room,  it  was  with  an  anxious 
eye  and  an  unsteady  hand  that  he  proffered  his  menus 
and  asked  the  orders  for  the  day.  Mrs.  Buchanan 
herself,  heavy-eyed  and  pale,  as  if  she  had  slept  ill, 
took  notice  of  nothing.  She  despatched  the  day's 
business  quickly,  with  some  impatience,  and,  after 
that  was  finished,  she  hesitated  a  moment. 

"Tell  Patterson  to  ask  Mr.  Buchanan  if  it  will  be 
convenient  for  him  to  come  to  me  here  presently," 
she  said. 

The  butler  drew  a  quick  breath. 

"Beg  pardon,  ma'am!"  said  he,  "I — I — "  He  had 
bent  a  little  towards  his  mistress  and  lowered  his 
voice,  but  at  just  that  moment  the  housekeeper  came 
into  the  room.  Mr.  Powers  made  a  little  sign  with 
his  head,  and  the  woman,  who  stood  in  terror  of  him, 
slipped  out  again,  closing  the  door  after  her. 

76 


BEG    PARDON,    MA*AM    .    .    .    MR.   BL'CIIAXAX    CAX'T    BK    FUlM), 

MA'AM 


THE    NEXT    DAY 

"Beg  pardon,  ma'am,"  said  the  butler  once  more, 
in  cautiously  lowered  tone.  "Mr.  Buchanan  can't  be 
found,  ma'am.  The  lights  in  'is — 'is  'eathen  'ouse  is 
agoing,  but  'e's  not  there,  ma'am,  nor  yet  in  'is  bed- 
room, nor  yet  in  the  stables  or  gardens.  We  'ave 
searched  the  place.  'E  'as  gone  in  'is  hevenin'  clothes 
an"  leavin'  the  lights  on." 

Mr.  Powers  delivered  his  final  sentence  in  a  thrilling 
and  dramatic  whisper.  Then,  dramatic  still — very  ap- 
preciative of  the  theatric  value  of  the  moment  —  he 
drew  back  a  step,  bracing  himself,  as  it  were,  and  wait- 
ed for  the  resultant  outburst. 

But  there  was  no  outburst.  He  had  expected 
blank  incredulity,  scorn  perhaps,  perhaps  tears  — 
hysterics.  None  was  forthcoming.  His  mistress  sat 
perfectly  still  at  her  writing-table,  her  hands  out- 
stretched idly  before  her,  for  a  rather  long  time.  The 
butler  began  to  wonder  if  she  had  heard  him.  Then, 
as  he  described  it  afterwards  to  the  housekeeper,  she 
turned  her  face  up  to  him,  "slowlike,"  not  in  aston- 
ishment, not  even  in  surprise,  it  would  seem,  but 
white,  very  white,  and  still,  uncomfortably,  and  hol- 
low-eyed. "Deathly,"  Mr.  Powers  said,  searching  for 
a  word.  And  she  said,  "Yes — yes,  I  know,"  in  a  sort 
of  whisper.  "Now  'ow  in  Gawd's  name  did  she 
know? — I  arsk  you!"  Thus  the  bewildered  Powers. 

And  after  another  rather  long  time,  during  which 
she  had  stared  fixedly  across  the  room,  she  said, 

"Send  Horton!"     Horton  was  her  maid. 

Mr.  Powers  tiptoed  out  of  the  room,  his  pendulous 
cheeks  puffed,  his  eyes  protruding.  These  mysteries 
were  beyond  him.  Entered  at  his  beck  the  excellent 
Horton,  inwardly  aboil  with  curiosity,  outwardly  calm 
as  blue  skies. 

77 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

"Mrs.  Crowley,"  said  the  woman  by  the  table,  not 
looking  up.  "Ask  her  if  she  will  be  good  enough  to 
come  to  me  here — at  once."  The  maid  went  on  her 
errand,  and  Mrs.  Buchanan  sat  by  the  table,  still,  her 
hands  idle  before  her — "deathly,"  as  Mr.  Powers  had  it. 

Old  Arabella,  blinking,  in  a  dressing-gown,  haled 
from  her  bed  and  from  the  very  midst  of  that  last  de- 
licious hour  of  morning  sleep,  bustled  in,  cackling, 
after  her  fashion,  resentment  at  this  outrage  upon  her 
well-being,  affection,  curiosity,  all  in  one  inconsequent 
and  uninterrupted  stream.  Beatrix  lifted  her  arms 
from  the  table  in  a  strange  outward  gesture.  Her 
great  eyes  burned  from  that  white  face  which  was  no 
longer  still,  and,  at  the  sight,  old  Mrs.  Crowley's 
chatter  ceased  with  an  audible  click. 

"Oh,  dear  child!"  she  cried.  "What  is  it?  Oh, 
what  is  it?" 

"He's — gone!"  said  Beatrix  Buchanan.  "Herbert's 
gone  —  and  he  won't  come  back."  Mrs.  Crowley 
dropped  into  a  chair,  staring.  It  was  some  little  time 
before  words  came  to  her. 

"Dead?"  she  said,  finally,  in  a  whisper.  But  the 
other  woman  shook  her  head. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I — think  not.  Just  gone — dis- 
appeared during  the  night.  They  can  find  no  trace  of 
him.  He  went  in  his  evening  clothes,  leaving  the 
lights  on.  His  bed  wasn't  touched.  But  oh,  Aunt 
Arabella,  I  knew  it  before  they  told  me!  I  knew  it 
all!"  She  hid  her  face,  sobbing.  "I  had  a  terrible 
dream,"  she  said,  "a  hideous  dream!  I  had  it  over 
and  over  again.  I  saw  Herbert  standing  beside  the 
big  mosaic  table  down  in  his  study.  He  was  just 
starting  away.  I  don't  know  how  I  knew  that,  but 
he  looked  at  me  with  a — sneering  grin,  a  nasty,  sneer- 

78 


THE    NEXT    DAY 

ing,  malicious  grin,  and  he  said,  'I'm  done  with  you 
and  with  all  of  them.  Let  them  think  what  they  like 
and  do  what  they  like,  I'm  done  with  them!'  He  said, 
'  For  once  I  shall  be  of  interest  to  my  friends — for  the 
first  time.'  Then  he  laughed,  and  went  away  laugh- 
ing. That's  what  I  dreamed,  over  and  over  again, 
and  when  I  waked  this  morning  I  knew  it  was  true. 
I  knew  he  had  gone  before  Powers  told  me.  Oh, 
Aunt  Arabella,  what  shall  I  do?" 

Another  woman  than  Mrs.  Crowley — one  who  had 
seen  less  and  had  suffered  less,  and,  in  consequence, 
believed  less — would  have  laughed  all  this  to  scorn. 
She  would  have  said:  "My  dear  child,  you  have  had  a 
bad  night.  Your  nerves  are  all  wrong.  This  is  hys- 
teria. Your  husband  has  gone  out  for  a  stroll,  or,  at 
the  most,  he  has  left  the  house  in  a  fit  of  temper  and 
will  turn  up,  rather  ashamed  of  himself,  later  in  the 
day."  But  old  Arabella  sat  silent.  There  be  very 
strange  things  abroad,  and  she  knew  it.  They  had 
touched  her  life  before.  So  she  sat  silent  and  allowed 
Beatrix  Buchanan  to  weep  for  a  little,  unchecked.  It 
was  the  best  thing  she  could  have  done.  But  after  a 
time,  when  the  younger  woman's  fit  of  weakness  had 
somewhat  passed,  she  said: 

"Dearest,  I  shall  not  waste  time  with  exclaiming 
and  protesting  and  such.  I  shall  not  try  to  soothe 
you.  It  seems  not  to  be  a  time  for  that.  Something 
strange  has  happened,  evidently,  and  we  must,  as 
calmly  as  we  may,  get  to  the  bottom  of  it.  I  have  no 
doubt  that  it  will  prove  simpler  than  you  think,  and 
that  everything  will  right  itself."  To  this  small  ex- 
tent old  Arabella  allowed  herself  a  gentle  lie.  In  point 
of  fact  she  felt  great  doubt.  "Now  who,"  said  she, 
"brought  you  the  news  of  Herbert's  disappearance?" 

79 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

"Powers,"  said  Beatrix  Buchanan.  And  the  old 
woman's  sane,  practical  bearing  seemed  to  quiet  her; 
for  the  fear  went  out  of  her  eyes  slowly,  and  the 
trembling  went  from  her  hands. 

"Send  for  Powers,"  said  Mrs.  Crowley. 

They  had  him  up,  and,  after  him,  the  valet,  and  the 
two  men  told  what  they  knew — little  enough!  Mrs. 
Crowley  heard  them  through  in  silence,  but  at  the  end 
she  drew  a  sigh. 

"The  child's  right,"  she  said,  in  her  soul.  And  her 
soul  stood  aghast.  "She's  right.  He  has  gone — God 
knows  how! — and  he  won't  come  back."  She  was 
given  to  premonitions,  Mrs.  Crowley,  like  most  old 
women.  She  had  an  odd,  prophetic  tendency.  Some- 
times her  premonitions  were  wrong,  but  not  often. 

"Find  out  if  M.  Stambolof  and  Mr.  Faring  are 
down,"  she  said  to  the  valet.  "And  if  they  are,  ask 
them  to  come  here." 

They  came  at  once,  looking  surprise  and  grave  con- 
cern, and  again  the  meagre  little  story  was  gone  over. 
It  was  characteristic  of  both  men  that  they  took  it 
with  perfect  calm,  without  outcry  or  show  of  aston- 
ishment. Young  Faring  said  nothing  at  all.  Stam- 
bolof made  a  single  half -audible  exclamation  and 
nodded  his  head.  He  was  thinking  of  the  tired,  de- 
spondent droop  of  Buchanan's  shoulders  as  he  had 
gone,  alone,  out  of  the  drawing-room  on  the  night 
before,  rebuffed  by  the  only  man  he  had  counted  upon 
to  bear  him  company  and,  it  may  be,  sympathy,  alone 
to  his  lonely  vigil  and — what  ? 

It  was  also  characteristic  that,  after  the  first  little 
silence,  it  was  Faring  who  squared  his  shoulders  and 
proceeded  to  take  command  of  the  situation.  Old 
Arabella  Crowley,  sitting  by,  nodded  her  white  head, 

80 


THE    NEXT    DAY 

and,  had  he  been  there,  Colonel  Eversley  would  have 
nodded,  too,  with  satisfaction  over  a  judgment  proved 
sound.  Faring  was  the  one  to  lead  a  cause.  Stam- 
bolof  had  been  too  long  out  of  action.  His  armor 
was  rusty  and  his  hand  had  lost  its  quickness. 

Young  Faring  turned  to  where  Beatrix  Buchanan 
sat  still  and  white. 

"I  had  been  meaning  to  go  away  to-day,  Beatrix," 
he  said — -"up  to  town — but,  if  you  don't  mind,  I  think 
I'll  stay  on.  I — may  be  of  service."  And  the  woman 
gave  him  a  little,  swift,  imploring  glance. 

"Oh  yes,  yes,  Harry,"  she  said,  under  her  breath. 
"Yes,  you  must  stay  on.  I  need  you.  I  —  you 
mustn't  go  now.  You  must  help  me." 

" Right,"  said  he.  "I  stay."  There  was  in  his  voice 
and  in  his  manner  no  hint  of  the  strain,  the  ill -hidden 
passion  which  had  been  there  the  evening  before. 
There  was  something  for  him  to  do  now,  and  action 
took  possession  of  him,  thrusting  all  else  out  of  the 
way.  He  nodded  to  the  butler,  who  was  waiting  just 
inside  the  door  of  the  room. 

"I  want  to  have  a  look  down  below,"  he  said,  and, 
as  he  moved  away,  touched  Stambolof's  arm,  so  that 
the  elder  man  followed  him  out  and  down  the  stairs. 

He  spoke  again  as  they  crossed  the  lower  hall. 

"Has  the  man  done  for  himself?"  he  asked  Stam- 
bolof.  "I've  been  thinking  of  last  night  and  of  what 
you  said  about  his  being  near  his  rope's-end.  Has  he 
gone  beyond  and  done  for  himself?" 

"Very  much  stranger  things  have  happened,"  said 
the  Russian.  "Yes,  if  you  ask  me,  I  think  he  has. 
Of  course,  one's  first  thought  must  be  that  he  has 
simply  gone  off  in  a  rage,  and  will  come  back  during 
the  day  or  during  the  week,  but — I've  an  odd  feeling 

81 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

that  he  won't.  He  was  in  a  bad  way,  nervously,  last 
night.  Eh,  poor  old  Buchanan!  He  was  none  too 
happy." 

They  reached  the  narrow  passage  which  led  to  the 
out-building.  Mr.  Powers  was  ahead,  opening  doors. 

"Have  you  also  thought,"  said  Stambolof,  gently, 
"how  singularly  fortunate  it  would  be  for  every  one 
concerned  if  it  should  turn  out  to  be  true — that  the 
man  has  done  for  himself?" 

"Oh,  for  God's  sake,"  cried  young  Faring,  and  be- 
gan to  tremble — "for  God's  sake,  don't  talk  about 
that!  I  don't  want  to  think  of  it.  Man,  I  mustn't 
think  of  it!" 

So  began  that  long  and  wholly  futile  search  for 
Herbert  Buchanan,  dead  or  alive.  Young  Faring  led 
it,  and  he  never  tired.  No  man  could  have  done 
more.  The  staff  of  the  household  he  set  to  work 
searching.  The  police  of  the  neighboring  town, 
pledged  to  secrecy,  scoured  the  neighborhood.  Picked 
men  of  a  certain  very  famous  detective  agency  came 
from  far  away  to  help.  No  stone  was  left  unturned, 
no  slightest  clew  neglected.  At  last,  after  a  week  of 
keen  effort,  when  no  trace  of  the  missing  man  could 
be  found,  the  case  was  publicly  turned  over  to  the 
police,  and  it  was  then  that,  over  your  morning  coffee, 
the  Buchanan  mystery  fronted  you  in  big,  black  let- 
ters with  a  bad  portrait  of  Buchanan,  and  beside  it 
one  of  an  obscure  theatrical  lady — this  purporting  to 
represent  the  anxious  wife. 

Of  course,  early  in  the  investigation  the  question  of 
the  man  with  the  scarred  face  arose,  and  for  a  long 
time  Faring's  efforts  were  almost  wholly  devoted  to 
tracing  this  person's  movements.  But,  after  all,  there 

82 


THE    NEXT    DAY 

seemed  no  good  reason  for  believing  that  he  had  had 
anything  to  do  with  Buchanan's  vanishing.  After  all, 
a  tramp,  a  vagabond,  even  a  possible  malefactor,  can- 
not pick  up  another  human  being  and,  with  his  burden, 
disappear  from  the  earth.  Beyond  that,  what  motive 
could  the  man  have  had  ?  The  gardeners  who  on  that 
fateful  evening  had  been  set  on  watch  testified  to  have 
seen  the  wanderer  loitering  along  the  high-road  out- 
side the  gates.  They  said  that  they  had  warned  him 
away,  and  he  had  gone,  apparently  without  malice  or 
resentment,  stealing  a  lift  upon  the  tail  of  a  farmer's 
wagon  bound  for  the  nearest  town.  In  explanation  of 
his  presence  near  the  gates  he  had  told  the  gardeners 
that  on  the  day  before  the  master  had  given  him  a 
five-dollar  bill.  This,  he  said,  was  somewhat  unique 
in  his  experience;  so  unique  that  he  had  wondered  if 
the  phenomenon  might  not,  upon  request,  repeat  it- 
self— the  lightning  strike  twice  in  the  same  spot. 

Could  the  man  have  returned  during  the  night  and 
effected  an  entrance  into  Buchanan's  out-house  ?  The 
gardeners,  as  one  man,  said,  "Perish  the  thought!" 
It  was  quite  impossible.  The  place  had  been  guarded 
as  it  if  were  a  military  camp  well  into  the  morning. 
Exit,  then,  as  a  player  in  the  tragedy,  the  man  with 
the  scar. 

Remained  what?  It  would  seem  nothing.  Never 
was  a  disappearance  so  puzzling,  so  absolute. 


II 

THE    TWO    WAYS    OF    LOVING 

HPHUS  days  passed — weeks — a  month  dragged  by, 

[  and  the  Buchanan  mystery  remained  unsolved. 
You  who  knew  of  it  only  through  the  daily  press  had 
long  ago  tired  and  forgotten.  A  score  of  equally  ex- 
citing sensations  had  thrilled  your  jaded  ears  since — 
and  had  been  forgotten,  too;  but  the  little,  faithful 
circle  which  clung  about  Buchanan's  wife — because  it 
loved  her — remembered  still,  only  its  last  resources 
seemed  to  be  exhausted,  its  last  bolts  shot. 

The  Eversleys  had,  "of.  course,  gone  some  time  be- 
fore this.  Their  many  engagements  had  called  them, 
and  they  had  departed  breathing — good  souls! — sym- 
pathy and  sorrow;  but  old  Arabella  Crowley  remained, 
Stambolof,  the  man  of  sorrows,  remained,  and  little 
Alianor  Trevor  and  Harry  Faring. 

Faring  and  Beatrix  Buchanan  sat,  one  morning  at 
the  end  of  this  month,  in  a  certain  open  pavilion,  a 
Japanese  summer-house  which  perched  upon  a  knoll 
beyond  the  gardens  looking  seaward  over  a  slope  of 
moor  to  the  broken  cliffs  where  the  tide  sucked  and 
plashed  and  made  its  eternal  moan.  And  they  talked 
of  what  had  been  done  during  the  past  weeks  and — 
rather  hopelessly — of  what  still  must  be  done  towards 
finding  the  man  who  was  lost. 

"And  so,  Harry,"  said  Mrs.  Buchanan — "so  here  we 
84 


THE    TWO    WAYS    OF    LOVING 

are,  at  a  whole  month's  end,  after  all  the  work  that 
has  been  done,  all  the  skill  that  has  been  expended, 
not  one  step  the  nearer  to  our  goal.  We  know  no 
more  than  we  knew  on  that  first  dreadful  morning.  I 
suppose,  if  one  could  quite  put  aside  one's  personal 
feeling,  if  one  could  look  at  it  all  quite  from  the  out- 
side, as  a — a  case,  a  mystery,  one  would  call  it  almost 
unparalleled.  I  suppose  there  have  been  very  few 
mysteries  so  absolutely  baffling." 

"Oh,"  said  young  Faring,  a  bit  doubtfully  —  "oh, 
hardly  that,  I  should  think.  People  disappear  very 
often,  really.  Only  one  seldom  has  any  immediate 
interest  in  the  case,  and  so  one  forgets.  Oh  no,  dis- 
appearances—  complete  ones  —  are  not  so  rare,  after 
all."  He  looked  curiously  at  the  woman's  face  as  she 
sat  staring  before  her  out  to  sea;  for  he  was  a  bit  sur- 
prised at  her  speech.  It  sounded  to  him  almost  cal- 
lous, almost  unfeeling.  And  as  if  she  read  his  thought 
she  turned  her  eyes  at  once,  and  a  bit  of  color  came 
into  her  white  cheeks. 

"I — I  expect  that  sounded  almost  hard,  didn't  it, 
Harry?"  she  said.  "Well,  somehow,  all  this  horror 
has  managed  to  make  me  hard — rather.  It's  as  if  I 
had  been  through  all  the  feeling  that  one  is  capable  of 
and  had  come  into  a  sort  of  torpor.  Now  and  then — 
just  as  a  moment  ago — I  find  myself  thinking  of  what 
has  happened  in  the  most  oddly  impersonal  fashion. 
Yes,  it  has  dulled  me,  sort  of."  She  looked  away 
again  for  a  little  space,  and  when  she  spoke  kept  her 
face  averted  as  if  she  wished  not  to  meet  the  man's 
eyes. 

"There's  no  use  in  pretending,  I  suppose,"  she  said. 
"Not  to  you,  anyhow,  Harry.  I — didn't  love  him, 
you  know.  I  almost  hated  him.  And  now  I  should 

85 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

be  a  hypocrite  to  pretend  that  in  losing  him  I  have 
lost  something  that  was  dear  to  me.  .  .  .  Harry!"  She 
faced  him,  and  her  eyes  burned  with  a  strange,  sudden 
fierceness — "Harry,  he  went  away  of  his  own  accord. 
Wherever  he  went — whatever  has  happened  to  him 
since — he  went  deliberately.  I'm  as  certain  of  that 
as  that  I'm  alive  and  talking  to  you  here.  I  feel  it 
all  through  and  through  me.  I'm  as  sure  as  if  I  had 
seen  him.  Indeed,  I  did  see  him  in  that  awful  dream. 
It  came  again  and  again  and  again,  all  through  that 
night,  and  I  believe  piously  that  God  sent  it  to  me  to 
let  me  know — to  make  me  sure,  as  I  am  sure;  so  that 
I  should  suffer  less  afterwards,  as  I  do  suffer  less  now 
— less,  I  mean,  than  as  if  I  thought  Herbert  had  been 
— had  been — had  had  something  terrible  happen  to 
him,  had  been  taken  away  against  his  will.  He  went 
of  his  own  volition,  Harry,  as  a  last  stroke  of  malice. 
It  was  the  cruelest  thing  he  could  do,  and  so  he  did  it. 
Oh,  I  knew  him  better  than  you  did — better  than  any 
one.  He  has  been  nothing  but  malice  for  a  long  time 
— malice  personified!" 

"Betty!  Betty!"  cried  young  Faring,  and  laid  a  hand 
on  her  arm. 

"Don't!"  he  said.  "You  —  hurt!  I  don't  like  to 
think  of  you  thinking  things  like  that,  even  if  they're 
true.  It's — too  much  like  reviling  a  dead  man.  You 
know,  Betty,  he — Buchanan  may  be — dead,  you  know." 

The  woman  gave  a  quick  sob. 

"I  know,"  she  said,  after  a  little.  "Don't — don't 
say  any  more,  Harry.  You — shame  me!"  She  looked 
up  into  his  eyes,  and,  because  her  own  eyes  were  wet 
and  very  full  of  pain  and  suffering,  and — much  else, 
Faring  looked  quickly  away.  He  had  unusual  powers 
of  self-restraint,  but  he  needed  them  all. 

86 


THE    TWO    WAYS    OF    LOVING 

"You're  a  better  man  than  I  am,  Harry,"  said  she, 
and  gave  a  little  forlorn  laugh  at  her  words.  "  You're 
fairer  and  juster  and  infinitely  more  generous.  That 
will  be  because  you're  a  man,  I  expect.  Women 
aren't  fair — or  generous,  either.  And  beyond  that  I 
fancy  I'm  not  a  very  good  woman  even  as  women  go. 
Oh,  I  mean  it!"  as  Faring  gave  an  exclamation  of  pro- 
test. "I'm  not  a  bit  strong  and — and  steadfast  and 
enduring  like  some  women  I  know.  I'm  rebellious, 
horribly,  and  I  resent  things.  I  resent  them  until  I'd 
do  almost  anything  to  end  my  suffering.  No,  I'm  not 
very  good,  but  I  haven't  been  very  happy,  either. 
You  can't  blame  a  woman  for  feeling  bitter  and  re- 
sentful— for  feeling  that  she's  been  cheated  out  of  her 
life  when  she  has  had  to  endure  what  I've  endured. 
Oh!"  she  cried,  almost  in  anger,  "a  man's  such  a  God! 
such  a  passionless  judge!  And  you're  such  a  man, 
Harry,  sitting  there  with  your  lips  shut  tight  and 
your  brows  down  over  your  eyes.  You're  disapprov- 
ing of  me  altogether,  aren't  you?  You're  thinking 
that  I'm  nothing  but  a  bundle  of  nerves  and  weakness 
and  spite.  Maybe  I  am.  If  so,  I  can't  help  it.  I'm 
a  woman,  you  see,  and — I  wanted  so  to  be  happy! 
Harry,  I  want  my  happiness.  They  took  it  from  me 
long  ago,  and  said,  'You  mustn't  have  it  any  more,' 
and  now  it's  further  and  further  away  from  me  than 
ever;  but  I  want  it.  I  want  to  be  happy." 

"I  would  to  God,  Betty,"  said  the  man  who  loved 
her,  teeth  set  together,  hands  clenched,  eyes  turned 
steadfastly  away — "I  would  to  God  you  might  have 
it.  I  would  give  all  my  life  and  any  small  hopes  I  may 
have  of  a  life  to  come  if  only  I  might  bring  your  hap- 
piness back  to  you,  for  it  seems  to  me  the  thing  most 
worth  doing  of  all  the  things  there  are." 

87 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

Mrs.  Buchanan  wept  for  a  moment  with  her  hands 
over  her  face,  but  the  man  did  not  stir  or  turn  towards 
her.  He  was  a  strong  man. 

"I  want  to  be  happy,"  she  said  again,  after  a  little 
time,  but  the  anger,  the  strength  of  feeling,  was  gone 
from  her  voice,  leaving  it  very  hopeless  and  weak. 
"And  now,"  she  said,  "I  never  shall  be.  I  never  can 
be  by  any  possibility.  I'm  chained,  and  the  other 
end  of  the  chain  is  lost  somewhere  in  the  dark.  I  can 
never  be — "  She  raised  her  head  suddenly,  and  a 
change  came  over  her  face,  an  odd,  startled  look. 

"Unless — "  she  said,  in  a  whisper,  and  stopped. 
She  turned  a  swift  glance  upon  the  man  beside  her, 
but  he  was  looking  away.  "Unless — "  she  said  again, 
and  got  no  further,  but  sat  wide-eyed,  staring,  clasp- 
ing and  unclasping  her  hands  before  her  in  her  lap. 

"Harry,"  she  said,  presently,  very  low,  "when  a 
man — is  lost,  disappears,  leaving  no  trace  behind  him, 
when  he  doesn't  come  back,  and  nothing  can  be 
learned  of  whether  he  is  alive  or  dead,  what  eventu- 
ally happens — legally,  I  mean  ?  What  becomes  of  his 
— property  and  such?  Oh,  don't  misunderstand  me! 
I'm  not  so  low  as  that.  I  have  plenty  of  money 
of  my  own.  Still,  I  must  know  about  such  things. 
Surely,  when  time  goes  on,  and  the  man  doesn't  re- 
turn, the  law  must  finally  presume  him — dead.  Surely 
there  must  be  some  period  set  for  that — a  year  ? — two 
years?" 

Young  Faring  looked  at  her  and  met  her  eager  eyes, 
saw  the  flush  of  sudden  excitement  in  her  cheeks. 
"Then,"  she  cried,  not  waiting  for  him  to  speak — 
"then  I  should  be — free!  Don't  you  see?  Don't  you 
understand?  I  should  be  free!  A  year  or  two  to 
wait.  Oh,  do  you  think  I'm  hard — heartless  ?  I  don't 

88 


THE    TWO    WAYS    OF    LOVING 

care,  I'm  half  mad.  To  be  free,  Harry!  A  little  year 
or  two  to  wait,  and  then  freedom!  You  don't  know 
what  that  word  means."  She  began  to  laugh  hys- 
terically, but  at  the  look  in  Paring's  eyes  the  laugh 
broke  and  died.  "What — is  it?"  she  whispered. 

"Oh,  Betty,"  said  he,  "the  law's  not  very  kind.  It 
takes  no  heed  of  tears." 

"How  long?"  said  Beatrix  Buchanan. 

"Five  years,  Betty,"  said  he,  and  she  gave  a  little, 
low  cry  under  her  breath. 

"It  isn't  —  true!"  she  said,  staring  at  him.  "It 
can't  be  true.  Five  years?  That's  monstrous,  unbe- 
lievable! No  law  could  be  so  cruel.  Five  years?  I 
don't  believe  you." 

"I'm  afraid  you  must,  Betty,"  said  he.  "The  law 
says  five  years.  But,  after  all,  during  those  five  years 
you  are  free  in  a  measure  —  granting  that  your — 
granting  that  he  does  not  come  back.  You're  free  of 
him,  and  that's  the  real  point.  As  for  the  property, 
that  doesn't  matter,  for  you  have  plenty  of  means  of 
your  own." 

Mrs.  Buchanan  sank  back  in  her  chair  with  a  tired 
sigh,  and  she  shook  her  head,  watching  the  man  be- 
side her  with  a  certain  miserable,  unwilling  admiration. 
He  had  wholly  misunderstood,  wholly  lost  the  point 
of  her  thought,  and,  grudgingly,  she  loved  him  the 
better  for  it.  As  she  had  said  in  her  poor  little  jest, 
he  was  a  better  man  than  she.  That  sudden  blinding 
flash  of  hope  and  joy  which  had  burst  upon  her  had 
seemingly  passed  him  quite  by,  even  though  he  loved 
her.  Watching  his  square  face  with  a  sort  of  dull, 
despairing  curiosity,  she  wondered  if  it  really  had 
passed  him  quite  by,  or  if  that  unassailable  sense  of 
honor,  that  angel  with  the  flaming  sword  which  stood 

89 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

at  the  gate  of  his  mind,  had  first  recognized  it,  and 
then,  untouched  by  temptation,  had  driven  it  away. 
Something  which  was  almost  like  anger  woke  in  her 
that  she  should  be  so  frail,  so  torn  with  grief  and  bit- 
terness and  love,  and  he  so  coolly,  unshakenly  sure  of 
himself,  so  untouched  by  the  storm  which  swayed  her. 
Woman -like,  she  had  a  mad  impulse  to  break  him 
down,  to  drag  him  to  the  torment  when  she  writhed, 
to  make  him  like  herself;  but  even  as  she  thought  of 
this  she  knew  that,  once  broken,  once  shorn  of  his 
strength,  she  must  despise  him,  and  her  last  prop  be 
gone.  It  was  his  great  strength  that  she  loved, 
though  she  beat  angry  hands  against  its  bulwarks. 
She  called  him  bitter  things  as  she  sat  there  watching. 
She  said  that  he  was  cold.  She  said  that  he  was  a 
prig,  but  she  knew  that  those  were  lies,  for  young 
Faring  was  as  far  from  a  prig  as  any  man  can  well  be, 
and  he  loved  her  more  than  most  men  ever  love  any- 
thing—  probably  far  more  than  she  had,  up  to  this 
time,  loved  him  or  any  one.  It  might  well  be  summed 
up,  she  said  to  herself,  in  this  manner.  If  Faring 
should  turn  suddenly  and  beg  her  to  go  away  with 
him,  leaving  all  the  wretched  tangle  to  right  itself  as 
best  it  might  or  remain  forever  a  tangle,  she  would 
go,  for  her  suffering  and  her  long  resentment  had  made 
her  very  weak;  but  afterwards  she  would  despise  him 
and  herself  so  long  as  she  lived,  and  she  would  die  at 
last  shamed  and  miserable.  If,  on  the  other  hand, 
she  herself  were  to  propose  such  a  thing  to  Faring,  he 
would  refuse  outright  to  allow  her  so  to  ruin  her  life, 
but  he  would  understand,  and  would  go  on  loving  her 
exactly  tne  same  as  before,  knowing  that,  for  a  mo- 
ment, she  had  been  tempted  beyond  the  limits  of  her 
self-control. 

90 


THE    TWO    WAYS    OF    LOVING 

That  was  how  they  loved  each  other,  she  said,  sit- 
ting in  the  little  Japanese  summer-house  and  staring 
across  at  the  square  face  of  the  man  who  would  not 
stoop.  And  she  admitted  that  his  love  was  infinitely 
the  better  as  well  as  the  greater,  and  she  knew  that 
presently  she  would  be  very  glad  that  it  was  what  it 
was,  but,  for  the  moment,  she  thought  she  almost 
hated  him.  And  that  was  very  like  a  woman. 

"Oh  yes,  yes,"  she  said,  and  Faring  looked  up  in 
surprise  at  the  childish  resentment  of  her  tone.  "Of 
course,"  she  said,  "it  is  easy  for  you  to  take  that 
cheerful  tone  and  to  speak  of  such  an  existence  as 
'freedom.'  It  isn't  you  who'll  go  to  bed  every  night 
of  those  five  years  in  despair  and  wake  in  the  morning 
with  terror — terror  that  the  day  may  bring — bring — 
Oh,  can't  you  see  how  unbearably  horrible  it  must  be? 
Of  course,  you  can't,  though!" 

"No,  of  course,"  said  young  Faring,  quietly,  but  at 
that  she  turned,  sobbing,  and  caught  at  his  arm. 

"Oh,  Harry!"  she  cried,  "don't  listen  to  me,  don't 
pay  any  heed  to  me!  I'm  not  responsible  for  any 
mad  thing  I  may  say.  Don't  despise  me,  if  you  can 
help,  Harry.  I'm  very,  very  wretched.  I  didn't  mean 
that — truly,  truly!  I'm  not  so  hard  and  ungrateful 
as  I  seem.  I'm  only  unhappy,  and — a  woman.  For- 
give me,  Harry.  You  must,  because  you're  all  I've 
got  now.  I  lean  upon  you.  If  you  desert  me  when 
I'm  horrid  to  you,  I  shall  die." 

Young  Faring's  cheeks  flushed,  and  he  gave  a  little, 
nervous  laugh. 

" There s  no  question  of  desertion,  Betty,"  said  he. 
"You  know  that,  I  think.  I  don't  desert  the  colors 
I've  enlisted  under.  I  shall  see  it  through." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  whispering,  and  a  sort  of  peace 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

came,  as  it  were,  visibly,  over  her.  "Yes,"  she  said, 
"you'll  see  it  through,  Harry.  I  know.  Thank  God 
for  that.  I  sha'n't  have  to  fear  your  deserting,  shall 
I  ?  After  all,  I'm  not  so  badly  off.  I  sha'n't  despair. 
And  now,"  she  said,  after  a  little  pensive  silence — 
"now  no  more  of  this  weeping  and  rebellion.  Have 
done  with  that!  Let  us  talk  very  soberly.  Tell  me 
exactly  what  you  think  of  it  all.  Do  you  think  he — 
he  went  away  of  his  own  accord  —  as  I  cannot  help 
thinking  ?  Do  you  think  he  is  alive  somewhere  now, 
and  that  he  will  one  day  come  back,  or — do  you  think 
he  has — is — dead — that  something  terrible  has  hap- 
pened to  him?  You've  had  your  thoughts,  your  theo- 
ries— however  little  evidence  there  may  be  for  them. 
What  do  you  think?" 

Young  Faring  hesitated,  frowning  down  upon  his 
clasped  hands  as  he  sat  leaning  forward. 

"'Theories,'"  he  said  at  last.  "Oh  yes,  theories. 
What  are  theories  worth?  I've  nothing  to  prove 
them  by.  Oh  yes,  I've  had  plenty  of  theories.  We 
all  have  had,  but  where's  the  good?  We  have  no 
facts.  And  still,  Betty,"  he  said,  after  another  little 
frowning  silence — "still,  with  little  or  nothing  to  go 
on,  I'm-  somehow  as  certain  as  you  are  that  he — " 

"That  he  went  of  his  own  accord!"  she  cried  out. 

"Yes,"  said  young  Faring.  "He  went  of  his  own 
accord.  The  dress  clothes,  and  the  lights  left  on,  and 
all  that  were  a  blind,  I  think,  left  to  puzzle  us.  There's 
one  more  thing.  I  didn't  discover  it  until  last  week. 
It  seems  that  he  had  a  fairly  large  sum  of  money — 
nearly  two  thousand  dollars  in  bills — presumably  in 
the  safe  that  stands  in  his  study.  I  found  it  out  from 
his  bankers.  He  drew  it  only  two  or  three  days  be- 
fore he  disappeared.  That  was  not  extraordinary, 

92 


THE    TWO    WAYS    OF    LOVING 

because  it  seems  that  he  was  in  the  habit  of  keeping 
such  a  sum  by  him.  Only — this  time  he  had  had  no 
chance  to  spend  it  before  he  went  away.  He  took  it 
with  him.  The  safe  is  empty,  and  it  has  not  been 
forced  or  broken  into.  The  lock  is  in  order.  You 
see,  he  must  have  taken  the  money  with  him.  Now, 
here's  an  important  point.  He'll  need  more  presently. 
That  sum  won't  last  long,  for  he  is  not  in  the  habit  of 
making  a  little  go  a  long  way.  He  wouldn't  know 
how.  One  day,  before  long,  he  must  come  back,  or 
else  in  some  fashion  draw  upon  his  bankers.  If  he 
does  that  we  shall  know  he's  alive  somewhere." 

"And,"  said  Mrs.  Buchanan — "and  if — not?" 

"Why,  if  not,  Betty,"  said  the  man — "if  not, then — 
it's  no  proof,  of  course,  it's  only  evidence — then  we 
shall  have  to  think  that  something  has  happened  to 
him.  So  it  seems  to  me." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  quietly.  "Yes,"  and  fell  to  staring 
away,  out  over  the  sea  where  the  little  waves  curled, 
crisply  blue,  and  the  gulls  wheeled  and  dipped,  white 
over  the  blue,  and,  beyond,  the  white  sails  of  yachts 
dipped  like  the  gulls,  wheeling  also,  and  bore  away 
towards  the  far  horizon  and  the  single  trail  of  smoke 
which  lay  in  a  motionless,  dim  streak  across  the  sky. 

"And  so,"  said  Beatrix  Buchanan,  "it  resolves  it- 
self again,  does  it  not,  into  waiting — just  waiting?  I 
wonder  how  long  I  shall  be  able  to  bear  it — the  strain, 
the  uncertainty.  I  wonder —  Oh,  what  a  world,  Har- 
ry! What  a  world!" 

"Mrs.  Crowley  is  coming  down  from  the  house," 
said  Faring. 

She  looked  up  the  long,  green  slope  of  lawn  to  where, 
among  the  flowering  shrubs,  old  Arabella  moved  in  slow 
majesty,  the  tail  of  her  dress  caught  safely  up  over  one 

93 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

arm,  the  other  arm  pressing  to  a  capacious  bosom 
three  small  books  bound  in  bright  -  yellow  paper. 
Several  paces  to  the  rear  a  maid  followed  under  a  bur- 
den of  rugs  and  pillows.  Still  behind  marched  a  foot- 
man bearing  drinkables  on  a  large  tray. 

Mrs.  Buchanan  began  to  laugh. 

"Observe  the  procession,"  said  she.  "It  is  only 
too  evident  that  Aunt  Arabella  meditates  a  debauch. 
Cushions,  things  to  drink,  and  yellow-paper  novels. 
Oh,  dreadful!"  The  laugh  died,  and  she  drew  a  little 
sigh.  "Dear  old  Aunt  Arabella!"  she  said.  "What 
should  I  do  without  her — without  all  of  you  ?  You're 
much  too  good  for  me,  you  know.  I  fancy  I'm  not 
worth  it.  No,  no.  Don't  protest,  Harry.  That  was 
much  too  obvious  a  trap.  What  vices  I'm  acquiring, 
am  I  not  ?  Fancy  descending  to  that !  Only — you  are 
such  dears,  all  of  you — and  you  above  all.  Oh,  yes, 
above  all,  you,  Harry.  You  give  so  much  and  ask 
nothing,  expect  nothing.  That's  beyond  me,  you 
know.  I'm  cheaper  clay.  Yes,  really  I  am.  I  ought 
to  know.  Hush!  Here's  Aunt  Arabella." 

Mrs.  Crowley  came  to  a  ponderous  halt  outside  the 
Japanese  summer-house,  and  with  disfavor  regarded 
the  two  who  sat  within. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "you  two  here?  And  I  had  prom- 
ised myself  a  long  afternoon  of  lonely  and  vicious  ease." 
She  displayed  the  three  yellow-covered  books. 

"These,"  she  boasted,  "are  new,  and  of  a  singular 
and  unparalleled  wickedness.  I  have  it  on  the  word 
of  Jacqueline  de  Courcey,  who  sent  them  to  me,  and 
Jacqueline  never  lies.  Now  you  have  spoiled  my  day." 

"We  might  read  them  aloud,"  suggested  young 
Faring,  but  old  Arabella  scouted  the  idea. 

"Never!"  she  said.  "Never!  You  are  much  too 
94 


THE   TWO    WAYS    OF    LOVING 

young.  I,  on  the  contrary,  am  ancient,  and  my 
morals  can  no  longer  be  destroyed.  The  books  must 
wait,  poor  dears! — Yes,"  to  the  maid,  "put  those 
cushions  in  the  big  chair.  I  will  at  least  be  comfort- 
able. What  ?  Yes,  yes ;  you  will  have  to  bring  more 
glasses,  I  expect.  Dear,  dear,  all  my  plans  upset! 
This  is  a  cruel,  cruel  world." 

With  much  assistance  and  many  groans  and  pro- 
tests, she  was  packed  into  the  big  willow  chair,  and  the 
yellow  books  were  stowed  away  under  the  cushions. 
Then  she  lay  back  and  closed  her  eyes,  panting  gently 
and  waving  a  large  palm-leaf  fan. 

"That,"  she  said,  after  a  time,  pointing  a  vague 
hand  towards  the  landscape  without  opening  her  eyes 
— "that  is  champagne-cup.  You  shall  have  some  of 
it  when  the  other  glasses  come.  As  for  me,  really,  I 
think  I  must  have  a  sip  at  once.  I  am  very  warm. 
Yes,  thanks,  straws.  Two  straws.  One  is  always 
broken.  Ah,  that  is  truly  delicious!  Who  invented 
champagne-cup?  Does  any  one  know?  Not  that  it 
matters  at  all.  The  result  is  with  us.  I  dare  say  the 
man  who  invented  it  was  never  able  to  afford  cham- 
pagne, poor  wretch.  I  expect  he  drank  beer  and 
dreamed  about  inventing  some  wonderful  mixture  of 
that  which  should  be  at  the  same  time  agreeable  and 
cheap.  Why  are  things  never  both  agreeable  and 
cheap  ?  Can  any  one  tell  me  ?  Presently,  you  know, 
the  Jews  will  have  all  the  money — all  of  it — and  then 
the  rest  of  us  will  no  longer  drink  champagne -cup. 
We  shall  have  to  drink  beer.  How  very  unpleasant!" 

Old  Arabella  closed  her  eyes  again  somnolently,  and 
the  dregs  of  liquid  spilled  out  of  the  long  glass  and  ran 
down  into  her  lap. 

"  Dear,  dear!"  she  said,  "  is  it  spilled  ?    Ah,  well,  there 

95 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

is  more,  thank  Heaven!  The  Jews  haven't  yet  got  it 
all.  Why  does  not  that  man  bring  the  other  glasses  ? 
You  should  scold  him,  Beatrix,  angel."  She  opened 
one  eye. 

"Oh,  they  are  here  already?"  she  said.  "How 
quick  of  him!  Tell  me,  is  it  not  delicious?  You 
might  even  have  some  more  brought.  I'm  sure  we 
shall  all  be  very  thirsty,  because  the  day  is  so  warm. 
There,  I  have  dropped  my  fan.  Oh,  thank  you!  And 
another  glass  of  champagne  -  cup  ?  How  clever  you 
are  to  have  felt  that  I  wanted  it!  I  did.  Dear  me, 
both  of  these  straws  are  broken  somewhere.  They 
won't  work.  I  have  never  known  more  than  one  to 
be  spoiled  before.  One  always  is.  I  wonder  why?" 

Old  Arabella  pensively  drank  the  second  glass  of 
champagne-cup,  and  thereafter  appeared  to  fall  asleep. 
But  one  never  could  be  sure  of  Arabella.  She  usually 
did  the  unexpected  thing.  And  in  this  instance  talk 
flowed  from  her  at  intervals  apparently  out  of  a  pro- 
found slumber,  like  unlooked-for  lava  from  a  quiet 
volcano. 

"I  left  Ellen  Trevor  and  Stambolof  on  the  east 
veranda  of  the  house,"  she  said.  "As  usual,  the  child 
had  been  stalking  him  for  some  hours,  and  had,  at 
last,  cornered  him  there.  She  seemed  very  tremulous 
and  very  happy  over  running  the  poor  man  to  earth. 
I  couldn't  bear  it,  so  I  came  away.  They  were  talk- 
ing about  her  soul  when  I  left — at  least,  she  was.  It 
appears  that  it  is  a  most  unusual  soul — a  sad,  sweet, 
unappreciated  one.  Poor  Stambolof!  He  looked  like 
some  large,  solemn  dog — a  Borzoi,  for  choice — being 
annoyed  by  a  kitten." 

Beatrix  Buchanan  laughed. 

"You  sha'n't  abuse  Alianor  Trevor!"  she  protested. 
96 


THE    TWO    WAYS    OF    LOVING 

"She's  a  sweet  child,  Aunt  Arabella,  and  I  love  her 
very  dearly." 

"Quite  so,  angel,"  said  the  old  woman,  still  appar- 
ently deep  in  slumber.  "So  do  I.  And  I  will  not 
quarrel  with  you.  So  heap  insult  and  calumny  upon 
my  ancient  head  as  you  will.  I  shall  not  strike  you. 
Or  isn't  'calumny'  the  word  I  want?  Just  what  does 
calumny  mean?  Can  no  one  tell  me?  'Be  thou  as 
chaste  as  ice,  as  pure  as  snow,  thou  shalt  not  escape 
calumny,'  as  what's-his-name  so  cleverly  said.  Can 
one  be  chaste  as  ice  and  pure  as  snow  if  one  reads 
wicked,  yellow-covered  books,  I  wonder  ?  Thank  you, 
dear  Harry.  The  tiniest  sip  more.  You  are  so  kind." 

"Alianor's  going  at  the  end  of  the  week,"  said  the 
other  woman.  "She  doesn't  know  it  yet,  but  she's 
going.  Three  different  people,  to  my  knowledge, 
want  her  at  Newport  and  two  at  other  places.  She's 
staying  on  here  for  my  sake,  but  I  won't  have  it  any 
longer.  I  won't  cage  her  up  here  when  she  ought  to 
be  away  having  a  good  time." 

"  Inhospitable  hussy!"  rumbled  old  Arabella  from  the 
depths  of  her  chair. 

"And  you're  going,  too,  Aunt  Arabella,"  pursued 
Mrs.  Buchanan,  "and  Stambolof.  He  really  has  to 
go.  He  told  me  this  morning.  And  Harry.  I'm  go- 
ing to  turn  you  all  out." 

Arabella  Crowley  sat  up  among  her  cushions  in 
wrathful  astonishment. 

"Well,  of  all  the — the  absurd  nonsense!"  she  cried. 
"You're  mad — quite  mad.  /go?  I  sha'n't  stir  a 
step.  Why  should  I  go?" 

"Because  you're  neglecting  a  thousand  things  and 
people  to  be  here,"  said  the  young  woman.  "You're 
leaving  everything  at  Red  Rose  and  in  town  at  loose 

97 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

ends  just  to  bear  me  company.  All  of  you  are  giving 
up  things  that  you  ought  not  to,  every  day,  and  I 
won't  have  it  any  longer.  Oh,  I'm  quite  serious!  I 
mean  it.  You  must  go  and  leave  me  alone.  I  shall 
do  well  enough.  It's  —  it's  only  waiting  now.  We 
can  do  no  more,  neither  you  nor  I.  We  can  only 
wait.  I've  been  thinking  it  over  very  seriously.  I 
shall  stay  here  for  a  month  or  two  longer,  waiting, 
and  if  there  is  no  news,  if  no  change  comes,  I  shall 
go  abroad  for  the  autumn  and  winter.  No.  Don't 
argue,  please.  I'm  quite  determined,  really.  It's  the 
best  thing  to  do.  I'll  come  to  you  for  a  while  at  Red 
Rose  later  on  if  you  want  me,  Aunt  Arabella.  But 
just  now  I  rather  want  to  be  alone.  I  don't  know 
just  why.  Maybe  I  want  to  think.  Maybe  it's  that. 
I've  never  done  much  thinking.  It  will  amuse  me,  I 
expect.  Yes,  you  must  go  at  the  end  of  the  week 
when  Alianor  goes." 


Ill 

BEATRIX    CONTENDS    WITH    DEVILS 

A^JD  they  went,  as  Beatrix  insisted.  They  went — 
all  but  little  Alianor  Trevor — fairly  driven  from 
the  place.  Stambolof  left  on  the  next  day ;  for  he  was 
called  over  to  London  on  affairs  of  some  importance, 
and  had  to  have  a  day  or  two  in  New  York  before 
sailing.  Mrs.  Crowley  and  Faring  went  at  the  end  of 
the  week,  old  Arabella  to  her  country  -  place  on  the 
Sound,  at  Baychester,  and  Faring  up  to  town,  whence 
he  meant  to  go  to  the  upper  Adirondacks  and  join 
some  people  on  St.  Regis. 

He  had  no  more  talk  with  Beatrix  alone  in  those 
last  two  or  three  days.  She  seemed  to  avoid  all  op- 
portunities for  a  tete-a-tete,  and  in  a  way  he  was  not 
sorry ;  for  he  was  very  determined  to  betray  no  feeling 
to  her  beyond  the  rather  intimate  friendship  which 
the  two  had  tacitly  adopted,  and  this  was  not  only 
difficult,  but  was,  he  felt,  growing  more  difficult  as 
time  went  on  and  he  saw  more  of  her  and  grew  more 
and  more  to  count  upon  her  presence  near  him. 

He  was  an  uncommonly  simple  man — which  is  not 
in  the  least  to  say  a  fool  or  stupid  or  dull.  His  mind 
moved  without  the  indirections  of  more  complex  and 
imaginative  people's,  and  he  had  therefore  fewer  ref- 
uges, fewer  safety  retreats  into  which  to  draw  back 
from  his  own  impulses  or  from  the  world.  There  was 

99  - 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

something  refreshingly  primitive  about  him — primi- 
tive without  being  either  cruel  or  rough.  He  knew 
quite  well  that  his  love  for  Beatrix  Buchanan  was  the 
one  very  great  and  overwhelming  thing  in  his  career, 
and  that  it  would  never  under  any  conceivable  cir- 
cumstances die.  He  had  frankly  to  face  the  fact;  for 
that  elemental  simplicity  of  his  would  not  allow  him 
to  hide  it  from  himself.  Many  men  and  most  women 
become  adepts  at  lying  to  themselves — though  they 
may  be  essentially  truthful  to  others — because  it  often 
saves  their  self-esteem  and  always  makes  their  march 
through  life  easier.  But  men  of  Paring's  type  are 
denied  such  comfort.  They  are  constitutionally  in- 
capable of  self-deceit. 

And  knowing  the  strength  and  endurance  of  this 
love  in  him,  young  Faring  was  in  constant  terror  lest, 
in  an  unguarded  moment,  the  love  should  sway  him 
beyond  his  control  and  another  scene  like  that  of  the 
evening  of  his  arrival  at  Buchanan  Lodge  occur.  He 
held  his  honor  exceedingly  high,  higher  than  anything 
else  conceivable  save  the  honor  of  Beatrix  Buchanan, 
and  that  is  why  he  was  glad  to  leave  the  place,  though 
it  was  like  cutting  a  limb  from  his  body  to  look  ahead 
into  the  days  when  he  would  no  longer  see  her  moving 
before  him  or  hear  her  voice  or  know  that  she  was  in 
the  same  house. 

The  night  before  the  morning  on  which  he  was  to 
leave  he  remained  down-stairs  some  time  after  the 
three  women  had  gone  up.  He  was  alone,  of  course, 
since  Stambolof  was  no  longer  there.  And  he  went 
out  upon  the  terrace  and  so  down  to  the  broad  stretch 
of  lawn  which  lay  alongside  the  west  wing  of  the 
Lodge.  He  knew  which  of  the  windows  above  him 
were  Mrs.  Buchanan's,  and  he  walked  up  and  down  in 

100 


BEATRIX   CONTENDS  WITH    DEVILS 

the  dark,  watching  them  where  they  glowed  yellow 
with  their  drawn  blinds  and  curtains.  He  watched 
till  the  lights  went  out.  It  was  a  boyish  thing  to  do 
— a  florid,  over  -  romantic  act  for  this  sober  century. 
Another  sort  of  man  might  have  done  it,  but  it  must 
have  been  with  an  inward,  half -ashamed  grin,  with 
the  tongue  in  the  cheek.  Young  Faring,  however, 
whose  sense  of  humor  was,  in  the  big  things  of  life,  at 
least,  none  too  keen,  took  it  quite  seriously.  It  did 
not  occur  to  him  that  what  he  did  was  at  all  ridic- 
ulous. 

When  the  lights  were  out  he  found  a  stone  seat  near 
and  sat  there  staring  up  at  the  darkened  windows. 
He  pictured  the  woman  whom  he  loved  lying  there  in 
her  bed,  her  eyes  wide,  fronting  the  dark,  hopeless, 
shrinking,  fearing,  dreading  the  morning's  light,  and 
the  thought  that  he  could  not  comfort  her  or  lighten 
her  burden  waked  him  to  a  sort  of  fury  of  bitterness 
and  protest.  Of  what  value  was  his  love,  his  faithful- 
ness, his  strength,  if  he  could  do  no  more  than  sit  by 
while  she  suffered.  It  came  to  him  that  to-morrow 
night  and  untold  nights  thereafter  he  could  not  even 
sit  by,  could  not  even  bestow  the  poor  comfort  of  a 
sympathetic  eye  and  hand,  and  his  face  twisted  sud- 
denly in  a  swift  spasm  that  might  have  been  physical 
pain. 

"If  I  could  only  do  something,  Betty!"  he  groaned 
in  the  dark.  "If  I  could  only  help  somehow!" 

The  blind  of  one  of  the  windows  above  him  ran  up, 
and  some  one  in  white  came  to  the  window  and  stood 
there  a  moment,  dim  in  the  moonlight,  looking  out 
into  the  gloom.  Faring,  in  the  shadows  below,  held 
his  breath.  It  was  Beatrix  Buchanan.  He  knew  so 
well  her  littlest  trick  of  pose  or  of  movement  that  even 

101 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

at  that  distance  and  in  that  faint  light  he  could  not 
mistake  her. 

She  stood  in  the  window  for  only  an  instant,  then 
turned  back  once  more  into  the  inner  gloom,  but  the 
man  in  the  night  below  stretched  out  shaking  arms 
towards  her,  and  the  veins  beat  and  throbbed  at  his 
temples. 

"Betty! "he  cried,  whispering.  "Betty!  Oh,  what's 
to  become  of  you  and  me,  Betty  ?  How's  all  this  hor- 
ror going  to  end?"  And  then: 

"Good-night,  child.  Oh,  sleep  well!  For  the  last 
time,  Betty,  good-night!" 

In  the  morning,  while  the  trap  was  waiting  for  him 
outside,  he  had  a  moment  alone  with  her.  She  was 
very  white,  he  thought,  and  hollow-eyed.  She  had  not 
slept  well,  it  would  seem,  in  spite  of  his  prayer. 

"And  so  good-bye,  Betty,  dear,"  he  said.  "You 
know  where  I  am  to  be.  When  you  need  me  or  want 
me  I'll  come.  Remember  that.  I  shall  never  be  far 
away.  I'm  still — under  the  colors,  you  know."  And 
he  tried  to  smile.  Mrs.  Buchanan's  eyes  were  upon 
his,  sombre  and  burning,  with  an  odd  strain  in  them. 
She  nodded. 

"I  know,  Harry,"  she  said,  under  her  breath. 
"  And — and  it's  more  of  a  comfort  to  me  than  I  could 
even  try  to  tell  you,  but  for  a  while  I  must  be  alone. 
I  need  to  think.  Oh,  go,  Harry;  go  quickly,  quickly!" 
She  pushed  him  with  her  hands,  and,  behind  his  back, 
he  heard  her  beginning  to  sob. 

He  went  without  a  word,  but  his  eyes  were  blind. 
He  groped  for  the  seat  of  the  cart  with  his  two  hands. 

Little  Miss  Trevor  would  not  go  with  the  others. 
She  refused  to  be  driven  forth. 

IO2 


BEATRIX    CONTENDS  WITH    DEVILS 

"Please  let  me  stay  on,"  she  begged.  "I  don't 
want  to  go  to  those  people  at  Newport.  I  don't  want 
to  go  anywhere  where  it's  gay  and  they're  having  a 
noisy  good  time.  I  want  to  be  entirely  quiet.  If  you 
won't  let  me  stay  here  with  you  I  shall  go  down  to 
the  Mannerings,  or  some  one  like  that,  and  -ask  them 
to  take  me  in.  Please  let  me  stay  on,  Beatrix." 

Mrs.  Buchanan  took  the  girl  in  her  arms  and  held 
her  off  a  little,  looking  curiously  into  her  face.  It  sud- 
denly occurred  to  her  that  Miss  Trevor  looked  rather 
ill — that  her  eyes  were  different,  tired  seeming,  with 
something  new,  something  like  distress  in  them.  Also 
she  was  thinner,  the  elder  woman  thought,  and  paler 
than  usual. 

"Baby,  dear!"  she  cried — little  Miss  Trevor  was  one 
of  those  girls  who  are  foredoomed  to  be  called  "baby" 
by  their  friends — "what  in  the  world  has  come  over 
you?  What  do  you  want  to  hide  yourself  for?  It's 
not  like  you  at  all.  One  might  think  you  in  love." 
And  then,  suddenly,  she  paused,  and  certain  half- 
noticed,  half  -  forgotten  things  flashed  through  her 
mind,  and  she  caught  the  girl  up  to  her  and  held  her 
close,  stroking  the  yellow  hair  and  murmuring  over 
her  as  a  mother  comforts  and  croons  to  a  little  child. 

"Oh,  you  poor,  dear  baby!"  she  said,  "you  blessed 
infant!  I  didn't  know.  Truly,  I  didn't  know.  Oh, 
baby,  I'm  a  fool,  a  blind,  benighted  fool!  I've  been 
so  drowned  in  my  own  woes!  I  might  have  seen! 
Yes,  you  shall  stay!  I  wanted  you  frightfully  all  the 
while,  but  I  thought  I  should  be  imprisoning  you. 
You  shall  stay,  dear!  You  must  stay!  We're  two 
lonely  women  whom  God  hasn't  been  very  good  to. 
There  isn't  much  comfort  for  us,  so  we  must  comfort 
each  other.  Oh,  child,  child,  why  need  you  have  been 
8  103 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

hurt?  Wasn't  I  enough  in  one  house?"  And  then 
the  two  wept  a  little  on  each  other's  shoulders,  and, 
woman-like,  seemed  much  relieved. 

"Does  he  know,  dear?"  demanded  Mrs.  Buchanan, 
when  they  were  sitting  together  afterwards.  The  girl 
raised  a  startled,  horrified  face. 

"Oh  no,  no!"  she  cried.  "He  doesn't  guess  at  all. 
No;  he  must  never  know.  It  would  only  hurt  him, 
dearest,  and  that  mustn't  be.  Oh  no,  he  must  never 
guess.  He — he  has  had  enough  sorrow  and  tragedy 
in  his  life.  I  don't  want  to  add  to  it.  I  cannot  drive 
out  of  my  mind  a  thing  that  horrid  Colonel  Eversley 
said  of  him  that  —  that  evening  after  dinner.  He 
said :  '  Stambolof 's  a  sort  of  walking  tombstone.  One 
doesn't  think  of  Stambolof  as  doing  anything  nowa- 
days,' he  said.  'He's  done  it  all.  He's  waiting  to 
die.'  It  was  a  horrible  thing  to  say.  It  made  me 
shiver,  but  I  can't  forget  it  because  it's — oh,  dearest, 
it's  true!  He  doesn't  really  live  any  more  because  his 
heart  is  dead  long  ago.  He  just  goes  on  existing." 

"I  know,"  said  Beatrix,  gently — "I  know.  It's 
true.  And  those  men  who  have  had  tremendous 
tragedies  in  their  lives  and  have  died,  all  but  phys- 
ically, are  always  loved  by  women  afterwards.  There's 
something  about  them,  I  don't  know  what  it  is,  but 
it's  fatal  to  our  poor  little  hearts,  baby,  isn't  it?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  the  girl.  "I  don't  know. 
I've  never  known  any  one  like  him,  and  I  never  shall. 
Probably  I  shall  never  see  him  again,  but  I'm — any- 
how, I'm  glad.  Oh  yes,  I'm  glad.  I'm  glad  it  has 
happened." 

"Ay,  child,"  said  Beatrix  Buchanan,  smiling  wanly 
out  across  the  girl's  head.  "We  love  the  fire  that 
burns  us — being  women." 

104 


BEATRIX    CONTENDS  WITH    DEVILS 

So  these  two  took  up  their  life  of  watching  and 
waiting  at  Buchanan  Lodge  —  scarcely  watching, 
though,  for  the  time  for  that  seemed  past.  They 
had,  by  this  time,  small  hope  of  Herbert  Buchanan's 
return.  That  is  not  to  say  that  the  efforts  to  trace 
him  were  quite  at  an  end.  A  quiet,  careful  search 
was  still  going  on  at  the  hands  of  those  skilled  men 
brought  for  the  purpose  from  far  away,  but  at  the 
Lodge  there  was  no  sign  of  this.  The  two  women  led 
their  uneventful  existence,  seldom  going  out,  seldom 
receiving  any  one,  though  sometimes  old  Arabella 
Crowley  motored  over  from  Red  Rose,  bustling,  after 
her  kindly  wont,  with  cheer  and  gossip  and  nonsense, 
flowing  with  ceaseless  talk  as  a  spring  flows  with 
water,  and  stayed  the  night  with  them.  In  the  main 
they  were  alone,  and  it  must  have  been  an  odd  life 
they  led  there.  At  a  venture  one  must  have  called 
them  ill-suited  to  be  so  cloistered  together  for  weeks 
upon  weeks,  but  as  danger  draws  men  together  and 
establishes  intimacy  where  otherwise  intimacy  could 
never  have  grown,  so  sorrow  and  suffering  does  with 
women,  and  so  this  girl,  with  what  she  imagined  to  be 
her  broken  heart,  and  this  woman  whose  soul  wrestled 
alternately  with  angels  and  with  devils,  who,  in  an 
inner  furnace  of  passion  and  bitterness  and  remorse 
and  pain,  forged  for  herself  out  of  warring  elements  a 
new  nature  which,  good  or  bad,  was  to  endure;  these 
two  came  very  close  to  each  other,  welding  in  those 
days  a  friendship  as  deep  and  lasting  as  can  exist  here 
on  earth,  much  deeper  and  more  lasting  than  most 
women  ever  know;  for,  in  general,  women's  friend- 
ships with  each  other  are  unstable  things. 

They  had,  Miss  Trevor  says,  many  long  and  inti- 
mate talks,  and  in  these  talks,  however  or  upon  what- 

105 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

ever  subject  they  may  have  begun,  Mrs.  Buchanan 
managed  always  to  come  to  the  man  who  was  lost, 
and,  for  all  they  knew,  dead.  She  spoke  of  him  at 
first  hesitatingly,  a  bit  timidly,  and  contrived  to  make 
his  introduction  into  the  talk  seem  accidental,  but 
later  she  spoke  with  a  freedom  that  was  almost  eager- 
ness. It  seemed,  now  the  man  was  gone,  that  she 
could  for  the  first  time  approach  their  relationship — 
their  life  together — nay,  rather  apart — with  calmness, 
with  a  fair  mind.  It  seemed  that  for  the  first  time 
she  could  sit,  as  it  were,  in  judgment,  laying  aside 
that  bitter  resentment  which  had  so  long  cloaked  her, 
and  ascribe  blame  where  blame  was  due,  credit  where 
credit  belonged. 

"I  wasn't  always  fair  to  him,"  she  would  say.  "He 
had  so  much  inside  himself  to  contend  with,  and  I 
never  realized  that.  I  was  too  wretched  and  bitter 
and  resentful  to  realize  anything  save  my  own  misery. 
No,  I  wasn't  fair  to  him.  I  never  helped.  I  only  sat 
alone  and  was  sorry  for  myself.  I  ought  to  have  been 
sorry  for  him,  too,  but  it  never  occurred  to  me.  That 
will  have  been  because  I  didn't  love  him,  I  suppose. 
Never  you  marry  anybody  you  don't  love.  Oh,  how 
trite  and  banal  of  me!  And  so,"  she  would  sum  up, 
"I  cannot  feel  angry  at  him  any  more — not  for  all 
that  time.  That  was  my  fault  as  well  as  his.  Only 
the  last — the  going  away  I  can  never  forgive.  That's 
beyond  me,  and  it  always  will  be.  No,  I  can't  for- 
give him  that — not  even  if  he's— dead.  That  was  de- 
liberate malice — I'm  sure  of  it,  just  as  the  nasty  little 
speech  he  made  at  dinner  was  deliberate  malice.  I 
don't  believe  God  expects  us  to  forgive  things  like 
that,  baby.  Anyhow,  I  can't.  I  expect  I'm  not  a 
forgiving  sort  of  person  in  big  things.  Only  very 

1 06 


BEATRIX    CONTENDS    WITH    DEVILS 

strong  people  can  forgive,  and  I'm  not  strong,  you 
see." 

This  sort  of  thing  Miss  Trevor  says  she  would  say 
over  and  over  again  with  a  sort  of  fierceness  as  if  she 
were  arguing  with  herself.  The  subject  seemed  to 
have  a  morbid  fascination  for  her.  She  seemed  pos- 
sessed of  a  sort  of  passion  for  laying  bare,  so  far  as  she 
might,  all  that  she  had  felt  for  and  about  poor  Bu- 
chanan during  their  marriage,  for  picking  out  and 
examining  all  her  old  motives,  not  so  much  by 
way  of  self- justification  as  to  determine  where  lay 
the  preponderance  of  blame.  It  seemed  that  she 
must  determine  where  lay  the  blame  for  those  two 
spoiled  lives  —  in  herself  or  in  the  man  who  was 
gone. 

And  Miss  Trevor  says  that  her  hostess  used  to 
leave  the  house  for  hours  together,  spending  whole 
mornings  or  afternoons  alone  in  that  little  Japanese 
pavilion  which  sat  upon  the  slope,  or  walking  along 
the  crest  of  the  cliff  above  the  sea  or  on  the  beach  at 
the  cliff's  foot.  And  she  would  come  in  from  these 
hours  of  solitude  drooping,  pale  in  spite  of  the  sun, 
hollow-eyed  as  if  unspeakably  tired.  Miss  Trevor 
realized,  she  says,  that  the  woman  was  undergoing  a 
great  struggle,  was  passing  through  a  crisis  which  was 
vital  to  her,  but  in  spite  of  the  intimacy  which  had 
come  between  them  she  dared  not  ask  questions  or 
seem  to  pry  into  anything  upon  which  Mrs.  Buchanan 
kept  silence.  And  later  she  was  glad  that  she  had 
held  her  tongue;  for,  towards  the  end  of  August,  when 
they  had  been  living  in  this  fashion  for  nearly  two 
months,  Mrs.  Buchanan  seemed  to  fall  into  a  calm. 
The  pallor  went  from  her  cheeks  and  the  hunted, 
strained  look  went  out  of  her  eyes.  It  was  as  if  she 

107 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

had  been  for  a  long  time  suffering  a  bodily  illness  and 
was  at  last  recovering  her  normal  health. 

Quite  of  her  own  accord  she  spoke  of  it  one  day  as 
the  two  sat  together  on  the  terrace  after  dinner. 

"I  have  been  groping  in  the  dark,"  she  said,  "strug- 
gling and  fighting  for  peace  of  soul,  and,  thank  Heaven, 
it  has  at  last  come  to  me — in  some  measure  at  least. 
I  expect  that  if  I  were  like  some  women — oh,  most 
women,  I  dare  say  —  I  should  not  have  had  to  go 
through  all  this.  Most  women  have  such  a  store  of 
patience  and  moral  fortitude.  I  haven't.  I  never 
had.  I'm  a  most  dreadful  person,  baby,  dear.  Truly 
I  am.  I  resent  injury  more  bitterly  than  any  one  I 
ever  knew,  and  I  have  always  felt  that  my  marriage 
and — and  this  latter  horror  were  injuries;  that  they 
were  inflicted  upon  me  by  other  people.  I've  always 
felt  that  I  hadn't  a  chance  for  happiness — the  chance 
other  girls  have.  Now — I'm  less  sure.  Probably  it 
hasn't  quite  all  been  burned  out  of  me — the  bitterness, 
I  mean.  But — does  it  sound  theatrical  and  silly  ?  I 
believe  I'm  a  better  woman.  Indeed,  I  do.  Please 
don't  laugh  at  me,  child.  If  you  laugh  I  shall  cry. 
This  is  how  I  feel  about  it:  I  blame  myself  for  a  large 
share  of  my  own  unhappiness  and  for — his,  Herbert's. 
I  wasn't  very  kind  to  him.  I  didn't  love  him,  and  so 
I  didn't  try  to  come  near  him,  ever.  I  let  us  grow 
further  and  further  apart  instead  of  doing  my  best  to 
draw  him  to  me.  I  let  him  grow  into  the  sort  of  man 
he  was  towards  the  last.  Possibly  I  might  have  pre- 
vented it  if  I'd  tried  hard  enough.  I  don't  know 
about  that.  Anyhow,  up  to  that  last  night  I  know  I 
was  at  fault.  For  his  going  I  hold  myself  blameless. 
That  was  unforgivable,  and  I  cannot  forgive  it.  It  is 
odd,  is  it  not,  how  perfectly  sure  I  am,  always  have 

108 


BEATRIX    CONTENDS  WITH    DEVILS 

been,  that  he  went  of  his  own  will?  It  isn't  that  I 
want  to  think  so,  to  clear  my  own  skirts.  I'm  simply 
sure  of  it  in  some  quite  mysterious  and  inexplicable 
fashion.  So  I've  purged  me  of  bitterness  and  resent- 
ment, and  I've  done  more  than  that.  I've  done  what 
was  more  difficult  still,  and  that  is  I've  come  to  a  sort 
of  resignation  over  the  present  and  the  future.  That 
wasn't  easy,  dear.  It  has  wrung  me  sorely,  for — well, 
there's — Harry  Faring." 

"Ah,  I  know,  dearest,  I  know,"  said  the  girl. 
"That's  the  cruel  part.  7  know." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  nodding,  "that's  the  cruel  part. 
It  means  that  I  must  put  the  thoughts  of — of  the  hap- 
piness that  I — of  that  sort  of  happiness  quite  from 
me.  It  means  that  I  must  look  upon  a  life  alone  as 
inevitable.  I'm  a  thousand  times  worse  off  than  a 
widow — worse  off,  even,  than  an  unhappy  wife,  for  she 
has  a  certain  way  out  of  misery  open  to  her.  No,  I 
must  be  alone,  and  I've  made  myself  face  it  and  grow 
familiar  with  it  and  resigned  to  itX^There  are  many 
levels  of  happiness,  child.  The  upper  levels  are  be- 
yond my  reach,  it  seems.  The  mountain-peaks  I  shall 
never  climb,  but  I  suppose  one  may  live  some  sort  of 
a  plodding  life  down  in  the  valleys  where  the — shadows 
are.  At  the  worst  there's  peace  there."/'' 

"But,"  said  the  girl,  "they  may  yet  find — Mr.  Bu- 
chanan. He  may  yet  come  back,  or  they  may  find  proof 
that  he  is — dead.  There's  always  that  possibility." 

The  elder  woman  shook  her  head. 

"I  have  put  that  out  of  my  mind,"  she  said.  "I 
dare  not  think  of  it,  and  I  do  not  expect  it  to  come. 
It  is  three  months  now,  and  there  has  been  found  no 
trace  of  him.  He  won't  come  back.  I  think  he  is — 
dead  somewhere.  But  we  shall  never  know." 

109 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

"And  beyond  that,"  persisted  little  Miss  Trevor, 
"there's  another  thing.  The  law  presumes  him  dead 
after  a  number  of  years." 

"Five  years,"  said  Beatrix  Buchanan.  "In  five 
years,  child,  I  shall  be  thirty.  In  five  years  where  will 
Harry  Faring  be?" 

"Wherever  he  is,"  cried  the  girl,  indignantly,  "he 
will  be  as  faithful  to  you  as  he  is  to-day,  and  you 
know  it.  He  will  love  you  as  long  as  he  lives,  whether 
it's  five  years  or  forty  or  fifty." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  she  said,  gently,  and  a  little 
smile  came  to  her  lips  and  trembled  there,  a  sad  little 
smile.  "Oh  yes,"  she  said,  "he  will  be  faithful.  He 
doesn't  forget.  He's  not  the  sort  to  forget.  But  five 
years!  Shall  I  keep  a  man  bound  to  me  for  five  long, 
empty,  hopeless  years?  Ah,  no,  no!  I  couldn't  bear 
that.  And  I  wouldn't  have  him  bear  it  either.  It 
would  be  too  cruel  for  us  both.  Besides — you  know 
him  a  little — do  you  suppose  he  would — marry  me 
without  positive  proof  that  Herbert  is  dead  ?  Do  you  ? 
/  might  do  it.  I'm  not  so  strong  as  he  is.  I  might 
steal  my  happiness  and  take  the  risks,  but  Harry — 
Harry's  different.  I'm  glad  he  is.  I  should  despise 
him  if  he  were  like  me. 

"And  so,"  she  said,  after  a  little  silence — "so  I've 
come  out  of  my  struggles  into  something  very  like 
peace  of  mind.  I  can  look  my  life  in  the  face  now 
very  calmly  without  bursting  into  a  passion  and 
wringing  my  hands  and  wearing  myself  out  with  re- 
bellion. I  can  begin  to  live — a  gray  life,  if  you  like,  not 
the  sort  of  life  I  may  have — dreamed  of — but  a  life. 
I  think  I  shall  go  abroad  for  the  autumn  and  win- 
ter. I  want  a  change.  I  want  to  get  away  from 
the  Lodge  for  a  long  while.  Perhaps  I  shall  stay 

no 


BEATRIX    CONTENDS  WITH    DEVILS 

away  for  a  year.  Would  you  care  to  come  with 
me?" 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  little  Miss  Trevor,  quickly.  "Let 
me  go  with  you.  There  is  nothing  to  keep  me  here. 
Aunt  Henrietta  won't  mind,  I  know.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  I  think  she'll  be  glad.  She  hardly  knows  what 
to  do  with  me.  I'm  frightfully  in  her  way,  poor  old 
dear.  Yes,  take  me  with  you  if  you  will.  I  should 
like  it  above  all  things." 

It  had  been  a  hot  day,  and  even  now  that  the  sun 
was  down  the  August  heat  lay  still  and  heavy  about 
them  where  they  sat  on  the  terrace,  but  Beatrix  Bu- 
chanan gave  a  sudden  little  shiver,  drawing  her  shoul- 
ders together  as  if  she  felt  cold. 

"The  air  is  chill  here,"  she  said,  quaintly.  "I 
shudder  in  it.  Perhaps,  dear,  the  sun  will  shine 
brighter  on  the  other  side  of  the  sea." 


IV 

IN    SEARCH    OF    SUNSHINE 

'T'HEY  sailed  from  New  York  within  the  fortnight; 
X  for  Beatrix  Buchanan,  once  her  mind  had  been 
made  up,  seemed  ridden  by  a  fever  of  restlessness  and 
impatience.  She  could  not  wait  to  be  gone. 

"I  cannot  breathe  here,"  she  said  again  and  again. 
"  I  want  to  be  off.  I  want  to  have  blue  sea  round  me. 
I  want  to  wake  up  each  morning  and  say,  'America  is 
three  hundred  and  fifty  miles  farther  away  from  me 
than  it  was  four-and-twenty  hours  ago.'  I  tell  you  I 
cannot  breathe  here." 

There  was  much  to  be  done  before  the  departure, 
but  she  hurried  through  with  such  duties  as  could  not 
absolutely  be  neglected.  Lesser  things  she  left  quite 
undone  or  consigned  to  the  hands  of  others.  She 
closed  the  Lodge,  leaving  there  only  the  family  of  the 
head-gardener  by  way  of  caretakers,  and  the  few  men 
who  were  still  busy  with  watching  for  the  improbable 
reappearance  of  Herbert  Buchanan  she  left  to  the 
direction  of  a  certain  elderly  and  very  faithful  lawyer 
in  whose  hands  lay  her  own  property  and  affairs.  It 
was  this  man  who,  upon  the  death,  some  eighteen 
months  before  this,  of  Beatrix's  father,  had  taken  in 
charge  that  gentleman's  very  badly  involved  estate, 
and,  to  every  one's  surprise,  had  managed  to  evolve 
from  what  had  been  considered  imminent  bankruptcy 

112 


IN    SEARCH    OF    SUNSHINE 

a  respectable  fortune  for  the  sole  heir.  As  a  result, 
Beatrix,  who  had  expected  nothing  at  all,  found  her- 
self endowed  with  an  assured  income  which,  though 
by  no  means  vast  as  American  incomes  go,  was  more 
than  enough  to  maintain  her,  if  ever  she  should  come 
to  depend  upon  it,  in  luxurious  comfort.  When  she 
had  first  learned  of  this  windfall  the  thing  evoked  in 
her  no  more  than  a  bitter  amusement,  since  she  had 
at  that  time  no  prospect  of  ever  having  need  of  the 
money.  Buchanan  was  not  illiberal.  She  had  but 
one  thought.  If  this  had  come  a  few  months  before, 
she  need  not  have  married,  for  what  old  Arabella 
Crowley  had  said  to  Stambolof  about  the  marriage  was 
sober  truth.  The  girl's  father  had  as  nearly  sold  her 
to  Buchanan  as  a  man  well  may  nowadays.  It  is  small 
wonder  that  the  sudden  stroke  of  good-fortune  found 
no  gratitude  in  her.  She  could  have  cursed  it.  But 
now,  at  this  juncture,  the  curse  was  turned  to  blessings. 

"I  want  you,"  she  said,  to  the  lawyer,  "to  estab- 
lish an  account  for  me  with  some  London  or  Paris 
bank  upon  which  I  can  draw  at  will.  I  mean  to  use 
my  own  money  entirely." 

She  wrote  a  letter  to  Harry  Faring,  who  was  still  in 
the  Adirondacks.  And  this  is  what  she  wrote: 

"I  am  sailing  for  Europe,  Harry,  on  September  8th, 
and  I  am  taking  Alianor  Trevor  with  me.  We  shall 
be  gone  a  long  time,  I  think — a  year  it  may  be,  or  even 
more.  I  feel  that  I  cannot  bear  it  here  any  longer. 
The  place  maddens  me.  I  want  a  complete  change  of 
scene,  and,  as  far  as  is  possible,  of  thought,  too.  That 
sounds  as  if  I  were  still  in  the  nervous,  rebellious  frame 
of  mind  in  which  you  left  me  here  two  months  ago, 
doesn't  it?  I'm  not,  though.  I've  been  thinking  a 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

great  deal,  Harry,  and,  I  believe,  changing  a  great 
deal,  too.  I'm  not  rebellious  any  more.  I  think  I'm 
— as  I  said  to  Alianor  the  other  day — a  better  woman. 
Don't  laugh.  I  mean  it.  I  look  forward  now  with 
no  rage  or  resentment  or  dismay  to  the  life  I  must  live 
— and  that  is  a  change,  you  know. 

"All  this  is,  I  fancy,  by  way  of  leading  up  to  some- 
thing which  is  difficult  to  say.  However,  tout  court, 
it's  this:  I  want  to  set  you  quite  free.  You  said  some- 
thing long  ago,  while  you  were  here,  about  'never 
deserting  the  colors  you'd  enlisted  under.'  The  colors 
are  lowered,  Harry ;  the  army's  disbanded,  and  you're 
free.  Look ;  the  thing  is  like  this :  I  will  not  dodge  or 
evade  the  truth.  We  two  people  love  each  other  very 
dearly.  I  admit  that,  and  I  am  proud  of  it.  But 
here  am  I,  a  woman  bound — as  I  said  to  you  that  day 
in  the  Japanese  pavilion — by  a  chain,  and  the  other 
end  of  my  chain  is  lost  in  the  dark.  So  our  love  is 
hopeless — oh,  entirely  hopeless!  But  because  it  still 
exists  we  mustn't,  for  both  our  sakes,  see  each  other 
or  be  near  each  other.  It  would  be  too  hard  for  us. 
That  is,  in  fact,  why  I  am  going  away,  and  it  is  also 
why  I  do  not  want  you  to  go  on  giving  up  your  life  to 
me  and  to  my  service.  What  I  do  want  is  that  you 
go  back  to  your  own  chosen  work — your  exploring 
and  all  such — that  you  begin  again  to  live  your  own 
life  quite  irrespective  of  me,  and  that  my  concerns 
cease  altogether  to  occupy  you.  You  understand,  don't 
you,  Harry?  You  see  now  miserable  I  should  be  to 
feel  that  I  had  wrecked  you,  bound  you  to  my  chariot 
wheels,  though  you  and  I  could  never  be  anything  more 
to  each  other.  You  understand,  don't  you,  how  glad 
and  proud  I  shall  be  to  know  that  you  are  doing  fine 
things,  important  things  such  as  you  have  already  done  ? 

114 


IN    SEARCH    OF    SUNSHINE 

"  So  I  beg  you,  with  all  my  strength  and  by  the  great 
love  I  bear  you,  put  me  and  my  troubles  and  cares 
aside.  Go  out  and  do  your  own  man's  work  in  the 
world,  and  let  me  drag  upon  you  no  more.  Love  me 
if  you  must — and  I  think  you  will,  thank  God! — but 
be  free  of  me. 

"So,  good-bye,  Harry.  I  shall  not  see  you  for  a 
long  time,  for  I  don't  want  you  to  come  to  New  York 
when  I  sail,  and  I  forbid  you  to  follow  me.  Good-bye. 
If  I  thought  God  would  listen  I  should  pray  for  you 
daily.  Perhaps  He  will.  Anyhow,  He'll  guard  you, 
I  think,  because  you're  strong  and  good. 

"  BEATRIX." 

They  slipped  away  very  quietly.  "I  don't  want  a 
chattering  crowd  of  people  with  roses  and  baskets  of 
fruit,"  Beatrix  said.  "Let  us  tell  no  one  that  we're 
going."  And  so  only  Arabella  Crowley  and  the 
elderly  lawyer  man,  who  fidgeted  with  his  eye-glasses 
and  seemed  to  wonder  why  he  was  there,  and  Alianor 
Trevor's  aunt,  a  fretful  lady  in  uncomfortable  black, 
were  at  the  pier  to  see  them  off.  Miss  Trevor's  aunt 
brought  a  large  parcel  with  her  in  her  brougham.  It 
proved  to  be  a  new  and  amazingly  ingenious  sort  of 
life-preserver,  which,  when  you  had  strapped  it  on, 
not  only  kept  you  triumphantly  afloat  in  the  worst  of 
weather,  but,  from  unsuspected  recesses  within  its 
bowels,  provided  you  with  meat  and  drink.  The 
donor  apologized  to  Beatrix  Buchanan  for  not  having 
provided  two  of  these  machines.  It  seemed  thought- 
less, she  said,  especially  as  Mrs.  Buchanan  was  doing 
so  much  for  dear  Ellen,  but  the  thing  was  so  very  ex- 
pensive and  one  had  so  many  calls  upon  one's  means. 

Old  Arabella  kissed  Beatrix  very  affectionately,  and 
"5 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

her  usually  copious  flow  of  nonsense  seemed  to  desert 
her. 

"I  think  you  are  very  wise,  dear  child,  to  go  away," 
she  said.  "I  think  it  is  far  the  best  thing  you  could 
do,  though  I  shall  miss  you.  Stay  a  long  time  and 
try  to  amuse  yourself.  You've  had  no  amusement 
for  years.  If  anything  turns  up  here — if  you're  need- 
ed, we  shall  let  you  know  at  once.  Now  go  on  board. 
This  waiting  about  is  so  silly.  And  don't  expect  me 
to  stand  on  the  pier-head  and  wave  a  handkerchief, 
because  I  shall  not  do  it.  I'm  going  to  take  Mr.  Al- 
thorpe  home  with  me  and  give  him  some  tea." 

And  two  hours  later,  when  the  steamship  slowed 
down  outside  Sandy  Hook  to  drop  the  pilot,  and 
gathered  way  again,  Mrs.  Buchanan  sank  into  her 
deck-chair  with  a  great  sigh  of  relief  that  was  almost 
a  sob. 

"There's  the  last  of  America,  thank  Heaven!"  she 
said.  "It's  shockingly  unpatriotic  in  me,  isn't  it? 
But  I'm  glad,  oh,  I'm  glad  to  be  off!  Baby,  dear, 
maybe  the  sun  shines  brighter  where  we're  going. 
It's  chill  here." 

They  went  first  to  Naples,  meaning  to  spend  some 
weeks  at  Sorrento  and  Capri,  but  it  was  very  hot  in 
Naples,  and  so  they  turned  north  to  Venice.  There, 
by  one  of  those  extraordinary  chances  which  bring 
friends  together  from  opposite  ends  of  the  earth,  they 
fell  upon  Stambolof  and,  with  him,  that  rather  famous 
cosmopolitan,  the  old  Earl  of  Strope,  Isabeau  de  Mon- 
signy's  grandfather. 

The  old  Earl  took  one  of  his  rare  and  violent  fancies 
to  Mrs.  Buchanan,  and,  after  a  fortnight,  insisted 
upon  bearing  the  whole  party  off  to  Chateau  Monsigny, 
which  is  near  Versailles. 

116 


IN    SEARCH    OF    SUNSHINE 

They  spent  a  month  there  in  company  with  Lord 
Strope  and  with  Lord  and  Lady  Loggan  —  to  give 
Isabeau  her  proper  but  unfamiliar  title.  And  then 
Beatrix  Buchanan  and  Miss  Trevor  went  to  the  Enga- 
dine  for  August  and  a  part  of  September. 

But  mid-autumn  found  the  two,  thanks  to  Lord 
Strope's  and  Isabeau  de  Monsigny's  efforts,  installed 
in  a  very  beautiful  flat  in  Paris,  in  the  quiet  rue  de 
Luxembourg,  which  borders  the  westward  side  of  the 
shady  Luxembourg  Gardens.  And  about  them  there 
gathered  naturally  a  little  circle  of  intimates,  who 
came,  in  the  course  of  time,  to  regard  themselves  as 
tea-hour  fixtures  in  the  place,  and  seldom  missed  a 
day.  Lord  Strope  came,  and  the  Loggans — for  be- 
tween Mrs.  Buchanan  and  the  beautiful  Monsigny 
heiress  had  sprung  up  one  of  those  swift  and  intimate 
friendships  which  often  occur  among  women  with  no 
apparent  cause,  and  are  afterwards,  as  circumstances 
fall,  broken  off  with  scarcely  a  pang — and  Stambolof 
came  with  regularity,  bringing  sometimes  a  friend  of 
his,  a  young  Englishman  who  had  come  out  of  the 
South  African  war  with  a  D.  S.  O.  and  an  injured  leg 
tendon,  which  did  not  noticeably  lame  him,  but  had 
rendered  him  unfit  for  further  military  service  and  had 
thrown  him  out  of  the  army  into  a  civilian  world 
where  he  seemed  a  bit  bewildered  and  at  a  loss  as  to 
how  to  occupy  himself.  And,  like  the  others,  this 
young  man — his  name  was  Braithwaite — soon  formed 
a  habit  of  dropping  in  at  the  rue  de  Luxembourg  with- 
out waiting  for  Stambolof  to  bring  him,  and  there 
showed  a  truly  soldierly  aptitude  for  manoeuvring 
little  Alianor  Trevor  into  a  corner  and  extracting 
sympathy  from  that  soft-hearted  lady  over  his  in- 
jured leg. 

117 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

So  in  this  quiet  fashion  the  winter  wore  on  and 
spring  came,  but  their  events  must  not  be  set  down 
here,  because,  although  this  is  the  story  of  Beatrix 
Buchanan  and  of  certain  of  those  whose  lives  were  for 
a  time  involved  in  hers,  it  is  rather  of  the  things 
which  happened  afterwards  that  the  chronicle  must 
concern  itself — the  bigger  and  stranger  things.  This 
year  abroad  was  a  year  of  waiting. 

Still,  the  very  waiting,  the  quiet,  pleasant  life  among 
congenial  friends,  the  absence  of  anything  dramatic  or 
tragic,  all  these  influences  had  their  value  as  affecting 
Mrs.  Buchanan's  mind.  It  is  the  real  growth  of  char- 
acter in  her  which  must  be  established  here,  the 
growth  out  of  a  bewildered,  a  resentful,  a  terror- 
haunted,  and,  finally,  an  exhausted  girl  into  a  woman 
whose  calm  soul  looked  upon  life  from  a  hill-top,  who 
knew  at  last  that  happiness  is  not  just  freedom  from 
care,  who  weighed  her  motives  and  her  actions  with 
serenity,  and,  in  the  end,  was  able  to  choose  the  way 
she  should  go,  not  perhaps  wisely  or  very  righteously, 
but  at  least  with  a  mind  unclouded  by  fear  or  be- 
wilderment, knowing  the  cost  and  the  reward. 

In  August,  Mrs.  Buchanan  and  Alianor  Trevor  went 
to  Lord  Strope's  Breton  castle  near  Audierne,  but 
mid  -  September  brought  them  once  more  back  to 
Paris  and  to  the  apartment  in  the  rue  de  Luxem- 
bourg. »• 

Just  then,  before  they  had  fairly  settled  them- 
selves, Beatrix  had  a  letter  from  Harry  Faring.  He 
was  in  London,  he  said,  just  landed  from  Buenos 
Ay  res.  She  had  known  that  he  was  in  South  America, 
somewhere  on  the  upper  Orinoco  with  an  exploring 
party,  but  this  was  all  she  knew,  for  they  did  not  write 
to  each  other.  And  he  asked,  without  any  expression 

118 


IN    SEARCH    OF    SUNSHINE 

of  tenderness  or  such — rather  formally,  indeed — if  he 
might  come  over  to  Paris  and  see  her. 

She  had  been  for  a  long  time  quiet  and  sheltered, 
distracted  by  pleasant  occupation  from  too  much 
brooding.  And,  with  her  newly  acquired,  calm 
strength,  she  had  been  successful  in  forcing  out  of  her 
thoughts  Harry  Faring  and  what  he  meant  to  her,  as 
well  as  the  tragedy  which  had  driven  her  from  her 
home.  Unconsciously,  she  had  connected  them  in  her 
mind  —  Faring  and  the  events  which  had  nearly 
wrecked  her  —  and  for  this  reason,  perhaps,  it  had 
been  the  easier  to  keep  her  thoughts  from  him. 

But  now,  with  his  short,  formally  worded  letter 
shaking  in  her  hand,  she  felt  a  sudden  overwhelming 
flood  of  emotion  which  amazed  and  frightened  her. 
It  was  her  first  experience  with  the  truth  that  a  great 
thing  may  for  a  long  time — even  years — lie  quite  dor- 
mant in  a  man's  or  a  woman's  mind,  subconscious,  as 
it  were,  and  at  last,  through  some  trivial  accident, 
burst  forth  in  all  its  old,  tremendous  strength.  She 
sat  locked  in  her  own  room,  bewildered  and  shaken, 
for  an  hour  or  more. 

Then  she  began  to  write  letters  to  Faring.  She 
wrote  six,  all  very  different  and  most  of  them  absurd. 
Some  told  him  to  come  and  some  begged  him,  as  he 
loved  her,  to  stay  away.  Towards  evening  she  tore 
them  all  up,  and  sent  a  servant  out  to  the  nearest 
bureau  de  paste  with  a  telegram. 

It  was  a  message  of  one  word,  and  said,  "Come." 

He  came  by  that  night's  train,  reaching  Paris  at 
five  in  the  morning,  but  it  was  not  until  afternoon,  a 
little  before  the  formal  hour,  that  he  presented  him- 
self. 

Beatrix  had  rehearsed  with  elaboration  and   care 

9  119 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

just  how  she  was  to  meet  him  and  what  she  was  to 
say,  for  she  was  still  very  much  disturbed  and  a  bit 
frightened — by  no  means  sure  of  herself.  According 
to  rehearsals  she  was  to  be  exceedingly  friendly — just 
that.  She  was  to  profess  a  great  interest  in  what  he 
had  been  doing  during  this  past  year,  and  she  was  to 
be  voluble  over  her  own  wanderings.  By  the  time 
they  had  finished  with  these  topics  other  callers  were 
sure  to  have  dropped  in,  and  the  situation  would, 
from  that  point,  take  care  of  itself. 

But  when,  as  she  sat  waiting  and  playing  with 
some  book — she  never  knew  what  book — in  the  long 
front  salon  which  overlooked  the  gardens,  he  was  at 
last  announced — "Monsieur  Varang,"  the  servant  had 
it — her  knees  gave  suddenly  under  her  when  she  tried 
to  rise,  and  she  began  a  little,  nervous,  foolish  laugh  of 
sheer  hysteria  over  the  absurd  sound  of  the  name  as 
rendered  by  a  French  tongue.  Faring  came  quickly 
into  the  room,  and  somehow  she  got  to  her  feet  to 
meet  him.  The  oft -rehearsed  lines  went  quite  from 
her  mind,  and  she  found  herself  saying  only: 

"How  —  thin  you  are,  Harry!  Oh,  how  thin  you 
are!"  Indeed,  he  was  alarmingly  thin,  and  looked 
worn  and  ill.  His  cheeks  were  hollow  and  his  eyes 
were  like  the  eyes  of  a  man  who  has  suffered  a  long 
illness.  They  seemed  much  deeper  set  than  usual, 
and  they  burned  sombrely  from  their  sockets.  He 
was  tanned  and  weather-beaten  almost  to  the  color  of 
leather,  but  under  this  tan  a  grayish  pallor  of  ill- 
health  took  the  place  of  the  blood's  rich  stain. 

"Only  a  touch  of  fever,"  he  said,  and  the  woman 
thought  that  his  voice  went  with  his  altered  face,  that 
it  was  tired  and  slack.  "I  had  a  fairly  bad  time  of  it 
a  couple  of  months  ago,"  he  said,  "just  as  we  were 

1 20 


IN    SEARCH    OF    SUNSHINE 

finishing,  luckily,  but  the  sea  voyage  across  from 
Buenos  Ayres  set  me  almost  right  again.  I  shall  be 
fit  as  ever  in  a  few  weeks.  You  are  looking  amazingly 
well,"  he  said,  conventionally.  "I've  never  seen  you 
look  so  well." 

Mrs.  Buchanan  dropped  into  her  chair  and  began 
pushing  the  things  about  on  the  tea-table  beside  her. 
She  might  well  have  broken  them,  for  her  eyes  were 
blind. 

"Oh,  I!"  she  said,  in  the  same  tone  of  polite  con- 
vention— "I'm  well.  Yes,  of  course.  I'm  positively 
sleek.  I'm  growing  fat  and  matronly.  It's  quite 
ridiculous.  You  see  —  I've  had  such  a  quiet,  lazy, 
peaceful  time  of  it.  Just  like  a  cow  at  pasture,  I 
might  say,  if  that  weren't  quite  too  insulting  to  my 
friends.  Did  you  know  that  Alianor  Trevor  was  here 
with  me?  And  Stambolof  is  here  a  great  deal,  and 
heaps  of  others  who've  taken  us  under  their  wings." 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  looking  down  between  his 
clasped  hands  at  the  pattern  of  the  rug.  "Yes,  to  be 
sure." 

"Are  you  going  to — stay  abroad  another  year?"  he 
asked,  presently,  when  she  did  not  speak. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "I  suppose  so. 
There's — nothing  really  to  take  me  back  to  America. 
I've  so  few  friends  there.  Aunt  Arabella  Crowley  is 
the  only  one  who  truly  counts.  Dear  old  Aunt  Ara- 
bella! She  writes  to  me  quite  regularly  once  every 
fortnight  and  tells  me  all  the  scandal.  I  want  to  see 
her,  of  course;  but  there's  almost  no  one  else.  And," 
she  said,  after  a  moment,  looking  away — "and  no — 
news." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Faring. 

Then  those  blindly  groping  hands  of  hers  did  at  last 

121 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

push  off  one  of  the  things  on  the  tea-table — a  silver 
strainer  it  was  —  so  that  it  dropped  to  the  floor. 
Beatrix  and  Faring  stooped  for  it  at  the  same  instant, 
and  on  the  floor  their  hands  touched.  It  was  like  an 
electrical  contact  between  two  charged  wires.  The 
woman  began  to  tremble,  and  for  a  moment  she  had 
not  the  strength  to  raise  herself. 

"Harry,  Harry,  Harry!"  she  said,  in  a  shaking 
whisper.  Young  Faring  drew  a  swift  gasp  which  was 
like  a  sob,  and  his  face  went  white. 

What  might  have  come  of  their  sudden  loss  of  con- 
trol no  one  can  say,  for  at  that  moment  Alianor  Tre- 
vor came  into  the  room,  and  almost  immediately  after 
Stambolof  was  announced. 


V 

ARABELLA    SUMMONS 

THE  correlation  of  striking  events  in  the  life  of  any 
individual  is  too  familiar  and  too  widely  recog- 
nized to  excite  amazement.  There  is  some  mysterious 
law  by  which  such  events  come  to  us  grouped  instead 
of  singly,  and  we  all  recognize  this  law  and  express  no 
criticism  upon  it.  It  is  only  when  we  come  upon  its 
workings  in  what  is  called  fiction  or  in  the  drama  that 
we  wag  a  scornful  head  and  talk  wisely  about  "twist- 
ing nature  to  make  a  story,"  about  "nonsensical 
melodrama,"  and  about  "things  that  never  would 
have  occurred  in  such  a  fashion."  The  old  folk-say- 
ings, "It  never  rains  but  it  pours"  and  "Misfortunes 
never  come  singly,"  are  not  foolish  or  random  phrases 
— they  are  proverbial  recognitions  of  the  working  of 
this  law. 

And  this  same  law,  it  would  seem,  must  be  held  re- 
sponsible for  the  bringing  together  of  Harry  Paring's 
visit  to  Paris,  with  its  consequent  effect  upon  Mrs. 
Buchanan;  its  setting  at  naught,  at  least  for  the 
hour,  of  all  her  long  year  of  repression  and  peaceful- 
ness;  and  the  coming  of  a  message  from  far  away, 
which,  infinitely  more  than  the  sight  of  the  man  she 
loved,  uprooted  her  from  her  new  world  and  thrust 
her,  trembling,  face  to  face  with  Fate. 

Faring  and  Stambolof  had  risen  to  go.  They  had 
123 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

made  their  adieux  and  had  turned  towards  the  door  of 
the  salon  when  a  servant  entered  with  a  telegram. 
Mrs.  Buchanan  said: 

"Oh,  just  a  moment.  We  must  arrange  about  the 
theatre.  May  I  read  this  despatch?"  She  tore  open 
the  flimsy  envelope,  and  Alianor  Trevor  said:  "Oh, 
it's  not  a  petit  bleu.  The  paper  is  white.  It  must  be 
a  cablegram." 

Then  Mrs.  Buchanan  sat  down.  After  a  moment 
she  said,  very  low: 

"Harry,  Harry!"  And  Faring  went  quickly  across 
the  room  to  her.  But  first  he  said  something  to 
Stambolof,  and  the  Russian  beckoned  little  Miss 
Trevor  out  of  the  room  to  the  iron  balcony  which  ran 
the  length  of  the  house  outside  the  long  windows. 
Faring  took  the  crumpled  white  paper  from  the  wom- 
an's slack  hand  and  read  it  swiftly. 

It  was  a  short  despatch,  and  it  was  signed  by  Ara- 
bella Growl ey.  It  said: 

"Body  found  resembling  Herbert.  Your  identifi- 
cation necessary.  Will  preserve.  Can  you  come  to 
New  York  immediately?" 

Mrs.  Buchanan  sat  in  her  chair  looking  dully  before 
her.  Her  hands  picked  and  pulled  at  the  lace  hand- 
kerchief in  her  lap,  but  her  face  was  absolutely  with- 
out expression.  Faring  looked  at  her,  and  went 
quickly  across  the  room  to  a  little  table  whereon 
stood  several  small  liqueur  decanters  and  glasses.  He 
poured  a  glass  of  brandy  and  brought  it  back  to  the 
woman,  who  sat  staring. 

"Drink  this,"  he  said.  "Drink  it  at  once — all  of 
it."  He  spoke  sharply,  in  an  old,  well-remembered 
tone,  the  tone  of  the  man  who  directs  a  situation.  He 
left  the  glass  in  her  hand  and  stood  for  a  moment 

124 


ARABELLA    SUMMONS 

thinking.  It  was  good  to  see  how  his  lassitude  and 
illness,  almost  his  pallor  of  cheek,  had  dropped  from 
him  like  a  cast-off  garment. 

There  was  another,  larger  table  in  a  corner,  with 
books  and  magazines  and  daily  papers.  He  searched 
among  these,  and  took  up  the  day's  edition  of  the 
Paris  New  York  Herald.  He  turned  to  the  shipping 
news. 

"To-day  is— Thursday,"  he  said.  "Thursday,  the 
sixteenth.  Friday?  No,  nothing  fast  on  Friday. 
Saturday,  September  the  eighteenth.  French  and 
American.  The  St.  Louis  will  do  it."  He  turned 
back  into  the  room. 

"Betty,"  he  said,  "the  St.  Louis,  of  the  American 
Line,  sails  from  Cherbourg  on  Saturday.  That  is  the 
day  after  to-morrow.  You  must  be  ready  for  the 
special  steamer-train  which  leaves  the  Gare  St.  Lazare 
at  nine-twenty  in  the  morning.  I  will  see  to  the 
tickets  and  all  that,  and  Stambolof  will  look  after 
your  affairs  here.  All  you  must  do  is  to  be  ready 
with  your  luggage  at  half-past  eight  on  Saturday 
morning.  Do  you  understand  ?" 

Mrs.  Buchanan  nodded  slowly.  "Yes,  yes,"  she 
said,  "I  understand."  But  she  seemed  in  a  daze. 
She  listened  to  him  like  a  little  child  who  is  told  what 
it  must  do  at  a  certain  time.  Her  eyes  were  be- 
wildered like  a  child's  eyes,  and  trusting.  After  a 
moment  she  said: 

"You — you'll  go  with  me,  Harry?" 

"Yes,  yes;  of  course,"  said  Faring.  And  then  he 
frowned  and  stood  looking  down  thoughtfully  at  the 
woman  who  sat  before  him. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  he  said,  and  went  back  to  the 
Herald  and  its  shipping  news. 

I25 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

"Lucania,  from  Liverpool,  Saturday,"  he  said  to 
himself.  "Yes.  Better,"  and  again  turned  to  Mrs. 
Buchanan. 

"No,  Betty,"  he  said,  "I  sha'n't  go  with  you." 

She  cried  out  at  that,  but  he  held  up  his  hand  to 
stop  her. 

"Wait.  Let  me  explain,"  said  he.  "I  shall  cross 
the  Channel  to-morrow,  after  I've  made  your  arrange- 
ments for  you,  and  take  the  Lucania  from  Liverpool, 
which  sails  on  the  same  day  as  your  ship.  I  shall 
probably  be  in  New  York  at  least  a  few  hours  before 
you.  It — when  you've  had  time  to  think  it  over  you 
will  see  that  it's  better  so — better  that  I  shouldn't  go 
with  you.  You'll  understand.  Now  I  want  a  word 
with  Stambolof." 

He  went  out  upon  the  iron  balcony  where  Stambolof 
and  Alianor  Trevor  were  waiting,  and  told  them  very 
briefly  what  the  message  had  been  and  what  he  meant 
to  do.  Miss  Trevor  said  at  once  that  she  would  re- 
turn to  America  with  Beatrix,  and  p  omised  to  see  to 
it  that  they  were  ready  for  the  steamer-train  on  Satur- 
day morning.  Then  Faring  and  Stambolof  went  away 
together  to  make  the  necessary  arrangements,  and  left 
the  two  women  alone. 

When  they  had  gone  Beatrix  Buchanan  seemed  at 
last  to  waken  from  her  stupor.  The  younger  woman 
had  dropped  down  beside  her,  perching  upon  the  arm 
of  her  chair,  and  had  drawn  the  still  head  against  her 
breast,  kissing  it  and  stroking  it  in  the  tender  way 
women  have,  and  for  a  moment  Mrs.  Buchanan  let  it 
rest  there.  Then  she  freed  herself  gently  and  rose  to 
her  feet.  She  drew  a  great,  deep  breath,  and  was 
seemingly  herself  once  more. 

"There  will  be  a  great  deal  to  do,  dearest,"  she  said. 
126 


ARABELLA    SUMMONS 

"We  must  make  our  plans.  We  must,  first  of  all, 
write  to  a  number  of  people — to  the  Earl  and  to  Isa- 
beau  and  —  oh  yes,  to  Lady  Sibyl  Eversley.  The 
Eversleys  were  coming  over  next  week,  were  they  not  ? 
There  is  so  little  time  that  we  probably  shall  see  none 
of  them  at  all,  save,  possibly,  Lord  Strope,  to-morrow." 
Her  eyes  fell  upon  the  thin,  crumpled  paper  of  the  tele- 
gram pasted  with  its  narrow,  typed  strips  of  message, 
and  she  took  it  again  into  her  hand  and  slowly  read  it 
through. 

"Oh,  baby,"  she  said,  at  the  end,  "what  shall  we 
find  ?  What's  to  come  of  this  journey  of  ours,  I  won- 
der?" And  then,  as  she  stood  there  beside  the  table, 
wide-eyed  and  thoughtful,  suddenly  a  crimson  flush 
came  up  over  her  throat  and  face,  and  she  gave  a 
little  cry.  It  was  as  if  it  had  only  then  come  into  her 
mind  what  this  journey's  end  might  mean  —  indeed, 
probably  would  mean — the  freedom  she  had  so  pas- 
sionately longed  for — freedom  and  something  else. 

She  laid  her  two  hands  over  her  face  and  moved 
blindly,  stumblingly  across  the  room  to  one  of  the 
windows.  And  she  stepped  out  on  the  balcony  and 
stood  there  for  a  long  time,  her  hands  still  over  her 
face. 

For  a  few  moments  little  Alianor  Trevor  watched 
and  waited.  Then,  as  the  elder  woman  showed  no 
sign  of  stirring,  she  went  quietly  out  of  the  room  to 
her  own  chamber.  There  she  locked  the  door  and 
laid  herself  upon  the  white  bed,  face  downward,  and 
began  to  weep  very  bitterly. 


VI 

I 

A   LAD'S    LOVE — AND   A   VERY   TIRED   OLD   MAN 

'T'HROUGH  the  next  day,  Friday,  the  two  were 
J[  very  busy  indeed  with  packing  and  letter -writing, 
and  with  the  thousand  various  things  which  must  be 
done  when  a  household  is  being  broken  up  in  the  space 
of  twenty  -  four  hours.  Lord  Strope  and  Lord  and 
Lady  Loggan  looked  in  during  the  course  of  the  after- 
noon, having  motored  from  Monsigny  on  receipt  of 
the  news  of  the  impending  departure. 

The  old  Earl  was  much  cast  down  and,  as  always 
when  disappointed,  in  a  bad  temper. 

"I  dare  say  I  shall  never  see  you  again,"  he  said, 
crossly,  to  Beatrix.  "It  is  my  usual  fortune.  I  be- 
come very  intimate  with  some  one,  and  then  that  some 
one  is  suddenly  whisked  to  the  opposite  end  of  the 
earth.  It  has  happened  a  score  of  times,  and  I  am 
too  old  to  take  such  things  patiently.  No,  I  dare  say 
I  shall  never  see  you  again.  I  shall  probably  die  one 
of  these  days.  I  ought  to  have  died  long  ago."  Mrs. 
Buchanan  laughed  at  him. 

"That  is  nonsense,"  said  she.  "You  will  live  for- 
ever, sir.  I  cannot  imagine  you  dying  or  even  grow- 
ing feeble.  Look  at  yourself  in  that  glass  yonder! 
Do  you  look  like  'dying  one  of  these  days'?"  The 
old  gentleman  gave  a  grim,  sour  smile,  but  he  was  not 
to  be  comforted,  and  was  finally  borne  off  by  the 

128 


A    LAD'S    LOVE 

Loggans,  still  growling  and  complaining  that  this 
world  was  an  uninhabitable  place  where  nothing 
pleased  him. 

Stambolof  and  Harry  Faring  dined  at  the  flat,  and 
Stambolof  stayed  on  afterwards,  but  Faring  had  to 
leave  almost  immediately  after  dinner  in  order  to  take 
the  night  train  for  London  and  Liverpool. 

When  he  had  gone  Mrs.  Buchanan  tried  to  leave 
the  Russian  and  Miss  Trevor  together  for  a  final  hour, 
but  Stambolof,  blind  as  ever,  insisted  upon  talking 
over  the  affairs  which  they  were  leaving  in  his  hands 
to  settle  and  close  up,  and  so  her  kindly  plan  was  de- 
feated. 

Late  in  the  evening  young  Braithwaite  appeared, 
white  and  panic-stricken  over  the  news  which  had 
just  reached  him. 

"I  say,  it  —  it  can't  be  true!"  he  pleaded  before 
Alianor  Trevor.  "You're  not  seriously  going  away 
out  to  America  on  a  day's  notice?" 

"I'm  afraid  it's  true,"  she  said.  "Yes,  I'm  afraid 
we're  going."  And,  because  she  liked  the  lad  very 
much  indeed,  and  knew  he  was  entirely  discreet,  and 
because  of  the  honest  distress  which  she  could  not  fail 
to  see  in  his  eyes,  she  told  him  why  they  were  going 
and  what  hung  upon  their  arrival  in  America. 

"Yes,  I  see,"  he  said  at  the  end.  "Oh  yes,  of 
course,  you've  got  to  go.  But,  hang  it,  it's  no  easier 
for  me,  is  it  ?  What's  going  to  become  of  me,  I  should 
like  to  know?" 

"Oh,  I  expect  you'll  just  go  on,"  said  the  girl,  "just 
as  always,  won't  you?"  The  hurt  in  the  lad's  eyes 
faced  her  out.  She  had  to  look  away. 

"You  know  better  than  that,"  he  said.  "I  can't 
just  go  on  any  more.  You've  settled  that." 

129 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

Miss  Trevor  shook  her  head.  "Have  I?"  she  said, 
gently.  "I  haven't  settled  anything." 

"You've  settled  it  without  trying,"  said  the  boy. 
"Settled  it  against  your  will,  if  you  like.  I  can't  go 
on  rotting  about  as  I  used  to  do.  I'm — too  hard  hit 
for  that  —  altogether  too  hard  hit.  You  know,  I 
think." 

"Oh!"  said  little  Alianor  Trevor.  "Oh,  I'm  sorry! 
I'm  sorrier  than  I  ever  was  before  in  all  my  life.  I — 
haven't  wanted  to  hurt  you.  Truly,  truly!  You've 
got  to  believe  me." 

The  lad  who  had  fought  in  South  Africa  squared  his 
shoulders.  "I  suppose,"  he  said,  slowly,  looking  at 
the  floor — "  I  suppose  you — mean  by  that  that  there's 
no  chance  for  me — no  chance  for  me.  What?  I 
s'pose  I've  been  a — silly  ass  all  this  while.  I  thought 
— I — you  see,  I  hoped.  A  chap  does,  you  know.  I 
couldn't  help  hopin'.  I  didn't  dare  give  up  hope  be- 
cause I — it  meant  such  a  jolly  lot  to  me!" 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  the  girl,  helplessly,  and  she  meant 
it  with  all  sincerity.  Safe  in  her  dim,  half -lighted 
corner  the  tears  came  to  her  eyes,  and  one  rolled  down 
her  cheek,  and  Braithwaite  watched  it  and  gripped  his 
hands  together  very  hard. 

"I — liked  you  so,"  she  said.  "I  like  you  now,  so 
very,  very  much!  That's  why  I've  let  you — see  so 
much  of  me.  It  may  be  that  I — might  have  been  able 
to  go — to  go  further  if — I  can't  tell,"  she  said.  "I 
mustn't  say  any  more.  I — there's  something  must 
keep  me  from  loving  you.  Please  believe  me." 

"There's  somebody  else?"  said  the  lad.  "There's 
some  other  man?" 

She  was  not  looking  at  him.  She  was  looking  down 
towards  the  far  end  of  the  room  where  Mrs.  Buchanan 

130 


A    LAD'S    LOVE 

sat  with  Boris  Stambolof,  and  he  had  never  seen  her 
eyes  just  like  that.  Something  stabbed  him  deeply 
— through  and  through. 

"Oh,  my  God!"  said  young  Braithwaite,  in  a 
whisper.  "Oh,  my  God! — Stambolof!  Stambolof!" 

The  girl  turned  to  him  with  a  shiver. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  said,  but  her  face 
flushed  to  the  hair  and  went  white  again,  and  those 
eyes  that  he  had  never  before  seen  told  their  unhappy 
tale  too  clearly. 

"And,"  said  she,  after  a  long  time  when  he  had  sat 
staring  miserably  into  her  face — "and,"  she  said,  very 
low,  "why — not?" 

"He's  —  a  dead  man!"  said  the  boy,  and  Alianor 
Trevor  shivered  again.  "  His  heart  and  soul  are  dead 
— long  since,"  he  said. 

"I  know,"  she  whispered.  "And  it  makes — no  dif- 
ference. I — ask  nothing  of  him — expect  nothing.  I 
love  him,"  she  said.  "I  cannot  help  it.  I  would  not 
help  it  if  I  could.  My  heart  is  full  of  him,  and — I  can- 
not love  any  one  else."  She  fell  into  a  little  staring 
silence.  Then : 

"I  am  sorry  to  have  hurt  you,"  she  said.  "You 
will  never  know  how  sorry  I  am.  If  it  were  not  for — 
if  things  were  different  I  think  I  should  have — loved 
you.  You  are  the  sort  of  man  a  girl  would  love  and 
be  proud  of.  Will  you  try  to  forgive  me?  I  mean 
for  having  let  you — love  me.  I  didn't  mean  to.  I 
was  unhappy,  and  you — you  were  kind  and  sweet  to 
me,  and — I  didn't  realize.  Will  you  try  to  forgive  me 
— after  a  while?" 

A  great  flush  spread  up  over  young  Braithwaite's 
face,  and  something  that  was  like  a  sob  broke  from 
him. 


BUCHANAN'S  WIFE 

"Forgive  you?"  he  cried,  tinder  his  breath.  "Have 
I  anything  to  forgive  you?  If  I've  been  a  stupid, 
blind  ass,  is  that  any  of  your  fault  ?  I'm — I  tell  you 
I'm  glad  I — love  you.  I'm  proud  of  it.  There's  no- 
body else  in  the  world  for  me,  and,  by  Heaven,  there 
never  will  be!  I  don't  mean  to  give  up  hoping,"  he 
said.  "One  day  you  may  find  that  you  can — that 
you  can — care.  I  don't  ask  you  to  promise  anything. 
I'm  just  going  to  wait  and — wait  and  hope.  You 
can't  prevent  me." 

"No,"  she  said,  sadly.  "I  can't  prevent  you,  but 
I'm  very  sorry,  because  I  cannot  feel  that  there  is  any 
hope  or  will  be  any." 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  "I  have  brought  you  nothing  but 
pain  and  grief!  I  wish  I  might  give  you  something  to 
make  up  for  them,  but  I  have  nothing  to  give." 

"I  can  wait,"  said  he.     "I'm  very  good  at  waiting." 

The  girl  put  out  a  hand  and  touched  his  cheek  with 
the  finger-tips — touched  his  lips.  It  was  an  odd  little 
caress. 

"You'd  —  much  best  not  wait,"  she  whispered. 
"You'd  much  best  forget  me." 

"When  I  forget  you,"  said  young  Braithwaite, 
soberly,  "it  will  be  because  I've  been  a  very  long  time 
dead." 

Stambolof's  farewell  was  much  briefer,  but  she 
never  forgot  it  so  long  as  she  lived.  He  had  gone  to 
the  station  with  the  two  women  the  next  morning, 
and  had  seen  to  their  luggage,  and  put  them  in  their 
reserved  compartment,  and  at  the  last,  when  the 
guards  were  running  along  the  platform  slamming  the 
doors  of  the  carriages  and  crying: 

"En  voiture,  m'sieurs  et  dames!  En  voiture!"  he 
132 


A    LAD'S    LOVE 

stood  an  instant  bareheaded,  by  the  compartment 
window,  and  he  bent  over  Alianor  Trevor's  hand  and 
kissed  it  with  his  old-fashioned  courtesy. 

"Good-bye,  mademoiselle,"  he  said.  "You  have 
been  a  rose  in  a  desert  to  a  very  tired  old  man.  Good- 
bye!" 


VII 

FOUND    DEAD 

THIS  time  there  were  no  blue  skies  or  summer  seas 
to  make  the  voyage  a  delight.      The  equinoctial 
gales  were  abroad  upon  the  north  Atlantic,  and  the  St. 
Louis  fought  her  way  through  them  from  port  to  port. 

Oddly  enough,  Beatrix  Buchanan  seemed  to  find 
something  in  this  blustering  clamor  of  the  elements 
which  was  to  her  liking,  for  Miss  Trevor  says  that  she 
would  make  her  way  out  upon  the  drenched  and  de- 
serted deck  to  the  weather-side  of  the  ship,  and  there, 
clinging  with  all  her  strength  to  the  rail,  would  stand 
for  hours  together,  wind,  rain,  and  spray  driving  upon 
her  and  forcing  the  very  breath  she  drew  back  into 
her  throat.  And  when  her  endurance  was  at  last 
gone  she  would  creep  exhausted  and  streaming  to  her 
cabin  and  fall  into  a  stupor  of  sleep.  Miss  Trevor  says 
that  she  was  reminded  of  those  days,  long  past,  at 
Buchanan  Lodge  when  Beatrix  would  come  in,  day 
after  day,  wind-blown,  dishevelled,  and  fagged  from 
her  long,  lonely  vigil  on  the  cliffs  or  by  the  sea.  Later, 
it  seems  that  she  obtained  a  quantity  of  sulphonal 
from  the  ship's  surgeon,  and  with  this  drugged  herself 
into  sleep  both  night  and  day. 

She  spoke  little,  Miss  Trevor  says,  but  when  she  did 
break  her  silence  it  was  to  express  fear  and  foreboding 
over  what  awaited  her  in  New  York. 

134 


FOUND    DEAD 

"This  storm  is  portentous,"  she  said  once.  "Do 
you  remember,  baby,  that  when  we  left  America  we 
had  still  weather — heavenly  weather,  of  smooth  seas 
and  cloudless  skies  ?  That  was  because  we  were  going 
into  sunshine  and  peace.  I  cannot  help  thinking  that 
these  angry  gales  are  taking  us  both  to — to  something 
like  themselves — back  into  storm  and  stress  once 
more.  Baby,  dear,  I'm  afraid;  I'm  afraid!" 

Miss  Trevor  says  that  she  tried  to  argue  with  her. 
She  says  she  pointed  out  the  fact  that  their  voyage 
could  have  but  one  of  two  results.  Either  this  dead 
man  would  prove  to  be  Herbert  Buchanan,  in  which 
case,  freedom — absolute  freedom  and  that  which  free- 
dom would  bring — or  it  would  not  be  Buchanan,  in 
which  case  they  had  but  to  recross  the  Atlantic,  and 
again  take  up  their  pleasant,  peaceful  life  in  Paris 
with  good  friends  about  them.  The  whole  thing  was 
very  simple,  she  urged,  and  there  was  nothing  in  it, 
either  way  it  should  turn  out,  to  bring  unhappiness  or 
despair. 

But  Beatrix  was  in  no  state  of  mind  for  reason. 
Argument  made,  it  seemed,  absolutely  no  impression 
upon  her.  She  only  shook  her  head,  and  repeated: 

"I'm  afraid,  baby,  afraid."  Which  brought  little 
Miss  Trevor  to  the  point  of  despairing  exasperation. 

And  once  she  said  something  which  greatly  puzzled 
the  girl,  since  it  seemed  to  her  to  have  nothing  what- 
ever to  do  with  the  matter.  They  had  been  talking 
in  the  above  vein,  and  Mrs.  Buchanan,  after  a  little 
frowning  silence,  said: 

"Do  you  know,  child,  I  sometimes  believe  I  have 
singular  depths  of  badness  in  me.  I  believe  that  my 
moral  sense  lacks  something.  It  isn't  as  strong,  some- 
how, as  other  people's.  If  I  had  been  born  in  another 

135 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

class  I  expect  I  should  have  stolen  things  without  feel- 
ing that  it  was  very  wrong.  I  wonder  why  that  is!" 
Miss  Trevor  pressed  her  to  explain,  but  she  would  say 
no  more.  It  would  seem  that  her  speech  must  have 
been  the  conclusion  of  some  long  course  of  introspec- 
tive thought,  but  she  refused  to  explain  what  she 
meant  or  what  it  had  to  do  with  their  going  to  America 
to  identify  the  body  of  Herbert  Buchanan. 

They  arrived  in  New  York  Harbor  on  Sunday  morn- 
ing, for  the  gales  had  considerably  delayed  them.  Old 
Arabella  Crowley  came  down  the  bay  on  the  boat  of 
the  customs  officials  and  boarded  the  ship  at  Quaran- 
tine. She  was  entirely  unexpected,  and  Mrs.  Bu- 
chanan was  not  on  deck  to  greet  her,  but  Alianor 
Trevor  was  there  to  witness  the  inspiriting  sight  of  a 
large,  elderly  lady  of  great  dignity  being  pushed  and 
hauled  up  a  sea-ladder  to  an  accompaniment  of  cheers 
from  the  steerage-passengers. 

Old  Arabella  kissed  Miss  Trevor  very  warmly,  and 
told  her  how  well  she  was  looking.  She  asked  for 
Beatrix,  and  the  girl  took  her  below  to  the  cabin 
where  Mrs.  Buchanan  was  superintending  the  packing 
of  her  bags.  Beatrix  gave  a  little  cry  when  she  saw 
the  old  woman  in  the  doorway,  and  ran  to  her.  But 
after  the  first  few  words  of  greeting  she  stood  away, 
looking  very  anxiously  into  Mrs.  Crowley's  face. 

"Is  it — Herbert,  Aunt  Arabella?"  she  asked,  in  a 
whisper. 

"I  think  so,  my  dear,"  said  old  Arabella.  "Every 
one  thinks  so,  but  we  cannot  be  certain  without  your 
word.  The  servants  of  the  Lodge  are  scattered  since 
you  closed  the  place,  and  we  have  been  able  to  find 
only  one  or  two  whose  opinion  was  worth  anything. 

136. 


FOUND    DEAD 

The  valet — Herbert's  valet — has  gone  to  England,  and 
cannot  be  traced.  There  is  one  point  which  only  you 
can  settle.  It  all  depends  upon  one  point."  Mrs. 
Crowley  looked  towards  the  maid,  who  was  busy  with 
her  mistress's  toilet  things,  and  Beatrix  sent  the 
woman  away.  Little  Miss  Trevor  also  made  some  ex- 
cuse and  left  the  cabin,  so  that  the  two  were  alone. 

"The — body,"  said  old  Arabella,  "was  found  in  the 
water,  my  dear,  and — well,  it  is  rather  unpleasant  to 
speak  of,  but  it  had  been  in  the  water  a  long  time, 
you  understand,  so  that  identification  is  not  so  easy 
as  one  might  think.  But  it  looks  very  like  Herbert, 
very  like  indeed.  There  is,  however,  one  point,  as  I 
said  before,  which  only  you  can  settle.  The  body — 
this  man  whose  body  has  been  found — had  an  odd 
and  conspicuous  scar  on  the  inside  of  one  arm — " 

Mrs.  Buchanan  cried  out  sharply,  and  she  began  to 
tremble,  and  after  a  moment  to  sob. 

"The — right  arm,"  she  said.     "The  right  arm." 

"Yes,  dearest,"  said  Arabella  Crowley,  "the  right 
arm."  And  for  a  moment  her  own  voice  was  a  bit 
unsteady,  so  that  she  paused  before  going  on. 

"It  must  be  he,"  she  said  at  last.  "That  proves  it' 
— practically.  Of  course,  you  will  have  to  —  see  for 
yourself.  They  will  insist  upon  that  I  expect.  I 
am  sorry.  It  will  be  very  trying.  But  now  there 
can  be  no  doubt  that  it  is  he."  She  hesitated,  and 
looked  doubtfully  towards  the  younger  woman  as  if 
she  did  not  quite  know  what  to  say  further — whether 
to  express  the  satisfaction  she  really  felt  or  the  sorrow 
which  convention  dictated.  But  Beatrix  Buchanan, 
glancing  up,  caught  the  look  and  smiled  faintly  back 
at  her. 

"Oh,  no  pretence  of  woe,  Aunt  Arabella,  please," 
137 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

she  said,  and  the  fit  of  nervous  shivering  and  of  sob- 
bing had  passed  all  in  a  moment,  leaving  her  calm. 
"Let  us  not  pretend  what  we  don't  feel,"  she  said. 
"I  am  glad,  frankly.  I  didn't  love  him,  as  you  know, 
and  I  am  glad  to  have  all  this  dreadful  strain  over 
with.  It  sets  me  free,  and  before  I  was  most  cruelly 
bound.  Oh  yes,  I  am  glad." 

Then  she  asked  if  Harry  Faring  had  arrived  —  he 
had,  the  night  before — and  when  she  would  have  to  go 
through  the  ordeal  which  was  before  her,  what  ar- 
rangements had  been  made,  and  all  such  practical 
matters. 

"Everything  is  arranged,"  Mrs.  Crowley  said.  "As 
soon  as  the  ship  is  berthed  we  will  drive  to  the — to 
where  it  is.  They  will  be  waiting  for  us,  your  lawyer- 
man  and  the  others.  It  will  take  only  a  few  moments. 
Then  we  can  go  home.  You're  coming  to  me,  of 
course,  in  Gramercy  Park.  Harry  Faring  will  be  there 
— at  the  house.  He  thought  it  would  be  best  not  to 
seem  to  be  engaged  in  the  thing  at  all,  though  he 
has  been  busy  all  this  morning  making  the  arrange- 
ments. For  a  man,"  said  old  Arabella,  handsomely, 
"he  has  great  tact  and  thoughtfulness,  Harry  has." 

Beatrix  Buchanan  smiled  softly  to  herself. 

"  He  has  all  that  a  man  should  have,"  she  said,  under 
her  breath.  "He  is  all  that  a  man  should  be.  He's 
tender  and  strong  and  faithful  and  true,  Aunt  Ara- 
bella. I  think  there  are  no  other  men  like  him  in  this 
world.  I  should  like  him  to  know  how  good  I  think 
he  is." 

Old  Arabella  sniffed. 

"I  dare  say  he  knows  as  much  about  it  as  is  good 
for  him,"  she  said.  "Never  you  praise  a  man,  my 
dear!  It  spoils  'em.  7  know.  They  become  quite  in- 

138 


FOUND    DEAD 

sufferable.  Discipline! — that's  what  men  need.  They 
don't  get  half  enough  of  it." 

Then  Mrs.  Buchanan's  maid  came  again  to  the  door, 
and  the  two  women  went  up  on  deck  to  allow  her  to 
finish  her  work. 

At  the  pier  the  elderly  lawyer -man  was  waiting. 
He  had  procured  a  ticket  permitting  him  to  go  inside 
the  customs  line,  and  greeted  Mrs.  Buchanan  at  the 
foot  of  the  gangway.  He  was  very  nervous  and  ex- 
cited, and  he  frisked  about  in  an  anxious  fashion,  say- 
ing over  and  over  again: 

"Now  we  must  be  perfectly  calm — perfectly  calm." 

Then  the  three  —  Mrs.  Growl ey,  Beatrix,  and  the 
lawyer-man — went  at  once  to  a  carriage,  which  was 
Waiting  for  them,  and  drove  away,  leaving  Alianor 
Trevor  and  the  maids  and  one  of  Mrs.  Growl ey's  men 
to  pass  the  luggage  through  the  customs  and  follow. 

It  was  a  wet,  chill  day,  with  lowering  skies  and  a 
fine,  driving  rain — a  November  day  come  before  its 
time.  Beatrix  sat  back  in  the  brougham  and  closed 
her  eyes,  and  old  Arabella  noted  that  she  was  slowly 
growing  paler,  and  that  her  hands  were  again  nervous 
and  unquiet.  The  lawyer  made  a  fine  effort  to  manu- 
facture cheerful  conversation,  but  Mrs.  Buchanan  did 
not  answer  or  seem  to  hear  him  at  all,  and  presently 
old  Arabella  gave  him  a  warning  nod,  and  he  subsided 
with  a  final,  "Quite  so.  Quite  so." 

It  seemed  to  Mrs.  Buchanan  that  they  drove  for 
hours — in  fact,  it  was  not  above  twenty  minutes  or 
thereabouts — and  after  a  time  she  sat  up  and  leaned 
forward  to  look  through  the  rain-splashed  window. 

"We  are  going  a  very  long  distance,"  she  said,  in  a 
fretful  tone.  "Where  are  we?  I  don't  recognize  the 
neighborhood  at  all."  And  just  then  they  drew  up  to 

139 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

the  curb,  and  a  man  who  had  been  standing  in  a  door- 
way came  out  and  opened  the  carriage  before  the  foot- 
man was  down  from  his  seat. 

The  man  said:  "Oh,  it's  you,  is  it?  We  was  afraid 
you  wouldn't  be  coming  till  afternoon.  Come  right 
along  in." 

There  was  a  little  knot  of  men  in  the  room  which 
they  entered,  and  the  men  all  turned  and  stared 
curiously  at  the  new-comers.  One  of  them  whis- 
pered something,  nodding  towards  Beatrix  Buchan- 
an, and  two  or  three  of  the  others  took  off  their 
hats. 

"We're  all  ready  for  you,"  said  the  man  who  had 
come  out  to  the  carriage.  "Make  a  light  in  beyond 
there,  Bill."  And  one  of  the  group  said,  "It's  made 
already." 

Then  the  man  who  seemed  to  be  in  authority  looked 
towards  Beatrix  Buchanan. 

"Shall  we — shall  I  go  in  with  you?"  asked  old  Ara- 
bella. Mrs.  Buchanan  shook  her  head  dumbly. 

"Better  —  alone,"  she  said,  after  a  moment.  It 
seemed  to  be  difficult  for  her  to  speak.  She  followed 
the  man  in  charge,  who  had  gone  towards  a  door  at 
the  back  of  the  room. 

"Right  in  this  way,  ma'am,"  he  said,  and  she  fol- 
lowed him  through  what  seemed  to  be  a  tiny  ante- 
chamber, and  thence,  upon  the  opening  of  a  door,  into 
a  farther  room  whose  atmosphere  smote  her  in  the 
face  with  an  almost  palpable  chill,  for  the  temperature 
was  below  freezing.  There  seemed  to  be  no  windows, 
and  the  only  light  came  from  two  flaring  gas-jets 
which  dropped  from  the  centre  of  the  ceiling  on  a 
simple  and  unornamented  T.  Under  them,  stretched 
upon  a  plain  trestle,  rather  like  an  operating-table 

140 


FOUND    DEAD 

which  she  had  once  seen,  something  long  and  still  lay 
covered  by  a  cloth. 

The  man  in  charge  tiptoed  across  to  the  thing  under 
those  flaring  gaslights,  and  Mrs.  Buchanan  wondered 
dully  why  he  walked  so.  She  decided  that  it  was  out 
of  respect  for  her  rather  than  for  the  dead,  since  his 
calling  must  long  since  have  robbed  him  of  that.  He 
turned  back  the  cloth  from  the  face  of  the  dead  man 
and  from  the  right  arm,  which  lay  out  at  a  slight 
angle  from  the  side. 

"Careful  now,"  he  said,  anxiously.  "Don't  you  be 
afraid.  There  isn't  nothing  to  be  afraid  of."  He 
half  held  out  his  hands  as  if  he  expected  Mrs.  Bu- 
chanan to  fall  in  a  faint.  Probably  he  had  had  un- 
pleasant experiences  with  women  who  came  there  to 
identify  friend  or  relation. 

But  this  woman  showed  no  sign  of  fainting.  She 
moved  up  beside  him,  he  said  afterwards,  with  no 
evidence  of  fear  or  even  of  reluctance.  And  she 
looked  down  at  the  sorry  thing  which  lay  there.  But 
the  sight  must,  after  all,  have  been  too  much  for  her, 
for  as  she  looked  she  gave  a  sudden  scream,  not  very 
loud,  and  put  her  hands  up  over  her  face.  Then,  after 
a  moment,  she  asked  him,  whispering,  if  he  would 
leave  her  alone  for  a  little.  He  wondered  at  that,  but 
women  often  asked  queer  things  of  him,  and  so,  with- 
out comment,  he  went  out,  first  fetching  a  chair  from 
the  other  end  of  the  room  and  setting  it  near  her.  He 
said  that  as  he  closed  the  door  behind  him  Mrs.  Bu- 
chanan was  just  sinking  back  into  this  chair,  and  he 
said  she  still  held  her  hands  over  her  face. 

They  left  her  alone  with  the  dead  man  in  that  chill 
place  for,  it  may  have  been,  four  or  five  minutes. 
Then  Mrs.  Crowley  went  to  the  door  and  knocked 

141 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

upon  it.  The  elderly  lawyer  stood  behind  her.  There 
was  no  answer,  and  so  she  knocked  again,  and  finally 
opened  the  door.  Beatrix  sat  where  the  keeper  had 
left  her.  Her  arms  had  dropped  to  her  sides,  and 
hung  there  with  the  fingers  nearly  reaching  the  floor. 
Her  eyes  stared,  unwinking,  at  the  thing  which  lay  so 
long  and  still  under  the  yellow  gaslight. 

When  Mrs.  Crowley  called  out  to  her  from  the  door- 
way, she  rose  very  slowly.  Once  on  her  feet,  she 
swayed  as  if  she  would  fall,  and  put  out  a  hand  to 
save  herself.  But  when  the  hand  nearly  touched  the 
thing  on  the  trestle  she  caught  it  swiftly  back  and 
gave  a  cry  under  her  breath.  The  other  two  came 
forward  into  the  room,  and  Mrs.  Buchanan  looked 
towards  the  lawyer.  She  seemed  not  to  see  old  Ara- 
bella. 

"It  is — Herbert  Buchanan,"  she  said,  in  a  dry  voice. 
And  she  repeated  it:  "It  is  Herbert — Buchanan." 

Then  she  let  them  lead  her  out  of  the  place  and  to 
the  carriage  which  was  waiting  at  the  curb. 


VIII 

BEFORE    PARADISE    GATES    COMETH    PURGATORY 

TT  was  about  a  week  after  this  that  young  Faring, 
|  following  his  daily  habit,  turned  into  Gramercy 
Park  and  went  up  the  steps  of  Arabella  Crowley's 
old-fashioned  house  which  stood  at  the  foot  of  Lex- 
ington Avenue.  The  footman  at  the  door  said  that 
Mrs.  Crowley  was  in  the  drawing-room.  He  did  not 
say  that  Mrs.  Buchanan  was  there  also,  and  Faring 
wondered  why,  for  he  knew  that  she  must  be  expect- 
ing him  at  this  hour.  There  were,  however,  so  many 
simple  and  perfectly  good  reasons  why  she  might  not 
be  below-stairs  or  even  in  the  house  at  just  this  mo- 
ment that,  as  he  found  himself  wondering,  he  gave  a 
short  laugh  and  shook  his  head  at  his  eagerness.  It 
was  rather  like  a  boy,  he  thought,  and  he  was  no 
longer  a  boy  in  any  way,  but  he  was  not  in  the  least 
ashamed  of  being  boyishly  eager  to  see  the  woman  he 
loved  or  boyishly  disappointed  if  he  was  made  to 
wait.  The  first  sight  of  her  after  he  had  been  away 
for  twenty-four  hours,  or  even  for  a  much  shorter 
time,  always  made  his  heart  give  a  quick  little  leap 
and  made  it  race  for  a  few  seconds.  Also  a  sudden 
flush  would  come  up  over  his  cheeks  and  then  die 
away.  Possibly  all  this  was  because  he  had  never 
been  what  is  called  a  "lady's  man,"  and  so  had  pre- 
served a  certain  unusual  shyness  and  a  certain  rare 

143 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

sensitiveness  to  that  charm  which  a  woman,  and  in 
particular  the  woman  one  loves,  spreads  always  about 
her  like  a  palpable  vapor.  More  probably  it  was  be- 
cause the  man's  whole  fine,  simple  nature  was  so 
charged  with  the  great  love  he  bore  for  Beatrix  Bu- 
chanan that  it  was  a  sort  of  actual  shock  to  come  into 
her  presence — a  constantly  repeated  thrill  which  never 
grew  less  or  turned  commonplace  or  showed  signs  of 
cheapening  itself  to  him. 

In  the  big,  square  drawing-room  where  the  blinds 
were  drawn  down  to  shut  out  the  sunshine,  Arabella 
Crowley  laid  down  a  book  which  she  had  been  read- 
ing, and,  without  rising,  held  out  her  hand. 

"Ah,  it's  you,  Harry!"  she  said.  "You'll  hate  and 
despise  me,  for  I'm  the  bearer  of  evil  tidings.  Who 
was  it  used  to  kill  bearers  of  evil  tidings  ?  I  once  had 
a  picture  about  it.  The  bearers  were  all  lying  about 
the  floor  in  an  untidy  heap,  and  the  person  who  had 
been  so  annoyed  by  them  was  lying  on  an  inartistic 
couch  thing  with  a  sword  in  his  hand  waiting  for  more 
tidings.  A  most  depressing  picture,  I  assure  you. 
What?  The  tidings?  Oh,  she's  gone!  Beatrix  has 
gone  away." 

Young  Faring  halted  suddenly  in  the  middle  of  the 
room. 

"What  do  you — mean?"  he  said,  in  a  still  voice. 

"  Gone  away,"  repeated  Arabella,  crossly.  And  then, 
as  he  stood  staring,  she  broke  out  in  a  half-angry 
laugh.  "My  good  man,"  she  protested,  "do  not  stand 
there  with  that  stricken  -  to  -  the  -  heart  expression ! 
There's  nothing  terrible  in  it.  She's  gone  away  for  a 
few  months,  for  decency's  sake,  I  take  it.  You  must 
remember  that  she's  a  newly  made  widow.  I  expect 
she's  running  away  from  you,  if  you  should  ask  me. 

144 


BEFORE  PARADISE  — PURGATORY 

I  expect  you've  been  making  love  to  her,  and  it's 
really  not  decent.  Oh,  bother  the  man! — Here!" 
cried  old  Arabella,  in  a  tone  of  exasperation.  "Here! 
She's  left  you  a  letter.  You  may  read  it  now,  if  you 
like.  I  must  talk  to  Huggins.  There  are  people 
coming  for  dinner,  and  I  have  not  even  seen  the 
menu.  Read  your  letter,  lad!  I  shall  be  back  in  ten 
minutes."  She  labored  out  of  the  room  a  bit  stiffly, 
for  the  autumn  had  brought  on  her  rheumatism,  but 
in  the  doorway  she  turned. 

"If  you  want  my  opinion  of  this  last  whim  of 
Beatrix  Buchanan's,"  she  said,  "I  think  it  is  too  ab- 
surd to  be  patient  over.  Why,  in  Heaven's  name,  she 
could  not  have  been  contented  to  stay  on  here  through 
the  winter,  in  peace  and  comfort  with  me,  I  cannot 
imagine.  I'm  very  much  out  of  temper  with  her.  I 
told  her  so  when  she  went  this  morning.  Was  she 
impressed?  No.  She  laughed  at  me,  and  kissed  me 
on  the  tip  of  the  nose.  I  wash  my  hands  of  her." 
Old  Arabella  moved  away,  grumbling  volubly  to  her- 
self, and  Faring  tore  open  the  envelope  of  his  letter. 

"Dearest,"  said  Beatrix  Buchanan.  That  "dear- 
est" sprang  at  him  from  the  white  paper  with  the 
same  little,  thrilling  shock  he  was  wont  to  take  from 
the  first  sight  of  her  face  after  an  absence.  "I'm 
running  away  from  you  for  a  little  while,"  she  said. 
"I'm  always  running  away  from  you.  You  will  be 
thinking  that  it's  a  habit  I've  got.  It  isn't,  though. 
This  is  why  I  am  going:  I  cannot  bear  to  stay 
where  you  are,  to  see  you  every  day,  and  remain 
on  the  terms  which  are  decent  and  necessary  for  us 
just  now.  It  is  too  difficult  for  both  of  us,  Harry. 
So  I'm  fleeing  you  between  two  days.  I  had  made 

145 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

up  my  mind  about  it  before  I  saw  you  yesterday,  but 
I  said  nothing,  because  I  hadn't  the  courage.  I'm 
a  frightful  coward,  you  know.  Truly  I  am.  I  was 
afraid  that  you  would  beg  me  to  stay,  and  I  knew  that 
if  you  did  I  should  stay  on.  And  it  really  won't  do. 
So  I'm  going  away  where  you  can't  find  me.  Even 
Aunt  Arabella  doesn't  know  where  I'm  to  be.  Only 
my  lawyer-man  knows,  and  he  won't  tell.  So,  Harry, 
do  not  try  to  find  me.  Wait  a  little  time — only  a  few 
months.  What  are  a  few  months  out  of  a  lifetime? 
This  is  the  eighth  of  October.  Six  months  from  to- 
day it  will  be  the  eighth  of  April.  On  that  day  I  shall 
let  you  know  where  I  am,  and  then — then,  if  you  want 
to,  you  may  come  to  me.  You  see,  I'm  still  giving 
you  your  freedom.  I  say,  '  You  may  come  if  you  want 
to,'  not  just  'come!'  Ah,  that's  very  silly  of  me! — a 
silly,  pretending  make-belief.  For  I  know  you  don't 
want  your  freedom  any  more  than  I  want  mine.  I 
know  that  you  will  be  counting  the  days  just  as  I  shall 
count  them,  and  that  you'll  be  very  bitter  at  them 
because  they  go  so  slowly.  We  needn't  pretend  to 
each  other,  need  we,  Harry?  We've  already  said  too 
much  for  that.  We  know  each  other's  hearts  too 
well.  Do  we  ?  Do  we,  though  ?  Ah,  well,  as  well  as 
is  good  for  us,  I  expect. 

"That's  all  I  need  say,  I  suppose.  In  April  I  shall 
write  to  you,  and  you  will  come.  Till  then  it's  wait- 
ing. Oh,  Harry,  the  waiting  will  be  long  for  me  as 
well  as  for  you.  You  must  believe  that. 

"Go  and  see  Alianor  Trevor  sometimes.  The  poor 
child  is  not  very  happy,  and  she  will  be  glad  to  have 
you  to  cheer  her  up.  She  says  she  is  not  going  out  at 
all  this  winter.  I  could  never  tell  you  what  a  com- 
fort she  was  to  me  at  the  Lodge  and  abroad. 

146 


BEFORE  PARADISE  — PURGATORY 

"Good-bye,  Harry!  Don't  call  me  names  for  all 
this — like  Aunt  Arabella,  the  blessed  old  termagant! 
Truly,  it's  the  only  thing  to  do. 

"BEATRIX." 

Mrs.  Crowley,  after  what  she  considered  a  discreet 
interval,  returned  to  the  drawing-room.  But  the  man 
was  still  bent  over  his  letter. 

"You've  had  time  to  read  that  twice  over,"  she 
said,  belligerently. 

"I  have  read  it  twice,"  said  young  Faring.  "I'm 
reading  it  again." 

The  old  woman  gave  a  short  laugh  of  mingled  ten- 
derness and  scorn. 

"  Of  such  inestimable  value  is  a  scrap  of  white  paper 
scrawled  with  ink!"  said  she. 

"Beatrix,"  said  the  man,  without  emotion,  "refers 
to  you  as  termagant — a  'blessed  old  termagant.'" 

"Ha!"  said  Mrs.  Crowley,  fiercely.  "Does  she, 
though?"  she  said. 

"She  does,"  said  Mr.  Faring.  "Of  course,"  he  ad- 
mitted, handsomely,  "she  may  be  wrong." 

"She  is,"  said  the  old  woman,  as  one  who  knows. 

"'Les  absents,'"  quoted  Mr.  Faring,  "'ont  toujours 
tort.'" 

"Is  that  your  own?"  she  demanded. 

"  Well,  not  altogether,"  he  smiled.  "  Still,  it  doesn't 
matter.  It's  just  as  untrue  as  if  I  had  made  it.  So 
Beatrix  has  fled  again  ?  Aunt  Arabella,  will  you  be  a 
bridesmaid  for  us  on  the  ninth  of  next  April?" 

"I  will,"  said  old  Arabella,  delightedly.  "I  have 
not  been  a  bridesmaid  for  nearly  forty  years.  I  wore 
hoop-skirts  on  the  last  occasion.  I  will  get  them  out 
to  lend  distinction  to  your  wedding.  No  one  who 

147 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

sees  me  in  hoop-skirts  on  the  ninth  of  next  April  will 
ever  forget  the  occasion." 

"No,"  said  young  Faring,  with  profound  convic- 
tion. "No,  it  would  be  impossible.  Never  will  there 
have  been  such  a  wedding."  He  rose  and  made  his 
adieux. 

"Good-bye,  Aunt  Arabella,"  he  said.  "I  am  going 
to  make  my  own  small  preparations.  I  cannot,  per- 
haps, rival  you  in  the  hoop-skirts,  but  I  shall  try  to  do 
my  little  best  with  what  I  have.  Never  will  there 
have  been  such  a  wedding,  I  promise  you." 

Outside  in  the  street  he  hailed  a  cab,  and  had  him- 
self driven  to  his  chambers  in  Forty-fourth  Street.  •  It 
was  an  hour  in  which  he  might  have  found  men  whom 
he  knew  and  liked  at  either  of  the  two  clubs  to  which 
he  belonged,  but  he  felt  a  strong  desire  to  be  quite 
alone.  There  were  things  to  be  thought  out  and  de- 
cided. 

In  his  rooms  he  filled  and  lighted  a  pipe,  and  sat 
down  with  Beatrix  Buchanan's  letter  on  his  knees, 
and  he  read  the  letter  through  for  the  fourth  time. 
Then  he  began  to  count  days,  going  over,  before  each 
month,  the  little  doggerel  lines  about  "Thirty  days 
hath  September,"  etc.;  for  he  could  never  remember 
without  it  which  months  had  thirty  and  which  thirty- 
one.  Half-way  through  he  stopped  to  laugh;  for  it 
came  into  his  mind  that  Beatrix,  in  her  letter,  had 
said  he  would  do  just  this — count  the  coming  days. 

Then  there  was  to  be  settled  his  occupation  for  the 
coming  six  months — indeed,  for  the  remainder  of  his 
life,  since  his  life  was,  happily,  to  be  no  longer  inde- 
pendent. So  far  as  income  was  concerned,  there  was 
no  necessity  for  occupation  of  any  sort,  since  he  had 
from  the  estate  of  his  father,  who  was  dead,  a  matter 

148 


BEFORE  PARADISE  — PURGATORY 

of  ten  to  twelve  thousand  a  year,  and  would  have, 
eventually,  from  a  certain  uncle  who  was  already  an 
old  man,  very  much  more.  Under  ordinary  circum- 
stances this  matter  of  income  would  have  made  no 
difference  to  him,  save  in  the  way  of  offering  him  in- 
creased resources;  for,  like  almost  all  men  who  lead 
very  active  lives,  he  had  a  great  scorn  for  idleness, 
and  was  unable  patiently  to  exist  in  it  for  more  than  a 
few  weeks.  But  this  new  future  which  awaited  him, 
glorious,  radiant,  golden-hued,  at  the  end  of  the  dark 
passage  of  those  six  dreary  months  took  from  him  all 
his  previous  standards  and  habits  of  thought.  He 
felt  himself  unable  to  see  into  it.  It  stood,  as  he 
pictured  it,  there  at  the  end  of  that  dark  passage, 
unspeakably  beautiful — rather  like  the  tangible  gold 
and  mother-of-pearl  heaven  which  simple,  mediaeval 
souls  imagined  —  a  place  of  delights,  of  dreams  re- 
alized; but  he  could  not  picture  activities  there — the 
daily  round  of  life,  the  drudgery  of  work.  In  Nirvana 
there  is  no  toil. 

Quite  beyond  this  he  had  a  simple-hearted  and 
naive  determination  to  expend  all  the  energy  that  the 
remainder  of  his  life  might  possess  in  the  sole  effort  to 
make  Beatrix  Buchanan  happy — to  make  her  forget 
that  there  had  been  such  a  thing  as  a  past  of  bitter- 
ness and  agony — to  make  her  world  a  place  where 
beauty  and  joy  and  love  dwelt,  and  nothing  besides. 
It  was  quite  characteristic  that  this  should  seem  to 
him  more  worth  while  than  anything  else  to  which  he 
could  devote  his  powers,  and  that  the  ordinary  ambi- 
tions of  mankind  should  seem,  in  comparison,  petty 
and  inconsequential. 

When  men  of  Paring's  type  seriously  love  a  woman, 
and  the  love  is  happy  and  results  in  marriage,  the 

149 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

world  at  large  loses  a  strong  and  valuable  force  in  its 
activities;  for  these  men,  being  very  simple  and 
single-minded  by  nature,  can  do  but  one  thing  at  a 
time.  They  do  this  one  thing  so  very  hard  and  so 
very  steadfastly  that,  whether  it  is  exploring  danger- 
ous country  or  leading  armies  or  helping  to  shape  the 
destinies  of  an  empire,  or  only  digging  sewers  through 
a  city's  streets,  it  is  work  which  succeeds  and  makes 
history.  But  when  they  love,  they  love,  not  like 
other  men,  as  one  of  many  activities,  they  love  with 
all  that  is  in  them,  and 'they  are  completely  lost  to 
the  world  without. 

It  has  been  said  that  this  is  because  they  have  no 
imagination,  and  doubtless  that  is  true — at  least,  in 
part,  for  imaginative  men  squander  their  imagina- 
tions. They  apply  them  to  everything  about — to  the 
"scheme  of  things  entire" — and  consequently  are  less 
apt  to  idealize  their  own  private  lives  where  facts  are 
most  intimate  and  stubborn  and  realities  most  salient. 
All  the  imagination  that  the  simple  and  practical  soul 
of  Faring 's  sort  possesses,  however,  he  uses  like  pearls 
and  jewels  of  price  to  drape  and  deck  that  relation- 
ship which  is  most  intimate  and  most  precious  to  him, 
and  that  is  why  the  greatest  romances  of  the  world 
have  been  played  out  between  women  and  soldiers  or 
statesmen,  and  not  between  women  and  poets. 

So  young  Faring  looked  upon  his  future  dimly, 
through  that  roseate  veil  upon  which  was  wrought  in 
golden  characters,  "April  eighth,"  and  was  troubled  not 
at  all.  Remained,  however,  six  very  terrible  months 
somehow  to  be  passed.  A  further  excursion  into  his 
favorite  field,  pioneer  travel,  was  rather  out  of  the 
question.  To  be  sure,  a  little  party  of  men  was  pre- 
paring to  attack  that  unknown  country  behind  the 


BEFORE  PARADISE  — PURGATORY 

Bolivian  Andes,  and  these  men  had  begged  him  to  go 
with  them,  but  the  thing  was  a  six  months'  job,  with 
great  labor  and  by  no  means  small  danger.  It  might 
stretch  out  into  a  year.  So  that  was  impossible. 
Moreover,  he  had  been  sorely  racked,  in  his  last  ad- 
venture, with  paludal  fever,  and  was  by  no  means  re- 
covered from  its  effects.  Tropical  exploration  was 
closed  to  him  by  this  trouble  for  a  long  time  to  come. 

He  had,  however,  during  his  months  in  the  upper 
Orinoco  country,  gathered  a  great  mass  of  notes  on 
certain  Indian  tribes  of  that  section,  and  he  possessed 
revolutionary  views  upon  the  origin  of  these  tribes. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  the  coming  months  might  not 
unprofitably  be  spent  in  putting  notes  and  views  into 
the  form  of  a  book,  as  he  had  more  than  once  been 
urged  to  do.  He  had  no  literary  gift  wliatever,  but 
few  explorers  have.  The  two  things  seldom  go  to- 
gether. Still  he  had  the  knowledge,  and  his  facts 
and  views,  set  forth  with  the  simple  bluntness  of 
which  he  was  only  capable,  might,  he  thought — and 
thought  rightly — be  of  interest  to  those  men  who  care 
about  South-American  Indians  and  where  they  may 
have  had  their  origin. 

Of  much  more  immediate  importance  than  all  this, 
however,  was  the  working  out  of  just  how  many  days 
lie  between  the  eighth  of  October  and  the  eighth  of 
April.  He  found  a  small  calendar  which  had  never 
been  disturbed  since  its  purchase.  It  had  a  leaf  for 
each  day  in  the  year,  with  a  sort  of  text  under  the 
number  on  each  leaf — an  improving  moral  sentiment. 
He  tore  off  the  leaves  from  January  ist  to  October 
8th,  and  hung  the  thing  on  the  wall  just  above  his 
writing-table.  The  leaves  that  remained — from  the 
current  day  to  the  end  of  December — seemed  to  him 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

to  make  a  dishearteningly  thick  packet,  and  he  re- 
flected that  they  counted  but  half  of  his  dreary  waste 
of  probation. 

"It's  long,  Betty,"  said  he,  staring  under  his  brows 
at  the  little  calendar  on  the  wall.  "  Sixty  minutes  in 
each  hour!  Twenty -four  hours  in  each  day!  Thirty 
days  or  thirty-one  in  each  month! 

"It's  long,  Betty!     Long!" 


IX 

BUT   WE    WIN   TO   THE    GATES    AT   LAST 

DULY,  on  April  pth,  in  a  damp,  little,  ivy -smothered 
church  which  fronted  the  "Green"  of  a  Connecti- 
cut village  where  she  had  spent  the  winter  with  a  cer- 
tain old  kinswoman,  Beatrix  Buchanan  was  married 
to  Harry  Faring.  Arabella  Crowley  was  there — not 
as  bridesmaid,  and  without  the  hoop-skirts,  alas! — and 
little  Alianor  Trevor,  and  the  faithful  elderly  lawyer, 
who  wept.  These,  with  the  kinswoman — a  Mrs.  Daw- 
lish — and  her  little  granddaughter,  made  up  the  wed- 
ding-party, for  neither  Beatrix  nor  Faring  wished  to 
have  many  people  there. 

"Our  happiness,"  Beatrix  said,  "is  our  own  affair, 
and  interests  very  few  people.  Let  us  not  be  stared 
at  and  gossiped  over  by  a  crowd." 

Her  summons  to  Faring  had  reached  him  about 
noon  on  the  day  preceding  this.  It  was  very  short, 
only  telling  him  where  she  was,  with  a  little  laugh  of 
triumph  over  having  been  so  near  him  all  those 
months  without  his  discovering  it,  and  saying  that  if 
he  chose  he  might  come  to  see  her. 

Faring  had  been  waiting  since  early  morning  with 
his  luggage  ready  locked  and  strapped.  He  sent  his 
man  to  the  station  with  the  luggage,  and  himself  made 
a  quick  dash  down  to  Gramercy  Park,  where  he  found 

153 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

Arabella  Crowley  just  entering  the  house  from  an  early 
drive. 

"She  says  I  may  'come  and  see  her,'"  he  jeered  to 
the  old  woman.  Mrs.  Crowley  told  his  wife,  long 
afterwards,  that  he  was  an  absurd  picture  of  that  joy 
which  intimately  resembles  imbecility.  '"Come  and 
see  her,'  so  please  you.  I  expect  she  thinks  that  we'll 
talk  it  over  at  leisure  and  get  ourselves  engaged,  and 
be  married  some  time  in  the  autumn — if  not  later  still. 
Ha!  She'll  find  herself  the  most  thoroughly  unde- 
ceived young  woman  in  America.  You're  due  at  a 
wedding  to-morrow,  Aunt  Arabella.  Oh!  and  bring 
Alianor  Trevor,  too,  and  that  lawyer-man.  I  haven't 
time  to  see  them  myself.  Come  down  to-night  or  on 
an  early  morning  train."  Then,  says  Mrs.  Crowley, 
he  was  off  in  three  leaps  to  his  cab,  with  a  parting 
wave  of  the  hand.  She  says  the  cab  turned  into  Lex- 
ington Avenue  on  one  wheel,  like  a  Roman  chariot  in  a 
hippodrome  race. 

The  trains  seemed  exceedingly  slow  to  him — which 
was  perhaps  not  unnatural — and  when,  at  South  Nor- 
walk,  he  had  to  change  to  the  little  branch  line  which 
ran  north  into  the  hills,  and  waited  an  hour  in  the 
station  there,  it  seemed  to  him  that  those  dreadful  six 
months  of  winter  were  beginning  all  over  again,  and  he 
worked  himself  up  into  quite  a  temper  over  the  mis- 
management of  the  New  York,  New  Haven  &  Hart- 
ford railway. 

He  had  left  New  York  shortly  before  two  o'clock, 
but  it  was  nearly  five  when  he  was  set  down  at  a  tiny 
village  which  seemed  to  be  all  elm-trees  that  met  in 
arches  over  the  streets,  and  flowering  shrubs  not  yet  in 
flower,  and  white-painted  fences  before  white-painted 
colonial  houses  a  little  out-at-elbows. 


WE  WIN    TO    THE    GATES    AT    LAST 

He  sent  his  luggage  to  the  inn,  and,  taking  direc- 
tions from  a  station  porter,  walked  down  one  side  of 
the  "Green,"  where  spring's  first  signs  were  beginning, 
past  the  ivied  church,  upon  which  he  looked  with  a 
fine  proprietary  air,  and  so  at  last  came  to  a  house 
exactly  like  the  other  houses,  white-painted — not  very 
recently — green-shuttered,  pillared  and  pilastered,  set 
about  with  clumps  of  syringas  and  snowballs  and 
lilacs  and  such,  guarded  by  forbidding  palings  in  the 
midst  of  which  a  gate  swung  in  the  breeze  and  dis- 
mally creaked  a  welcome. 

To  the  door  came  a  lean  and  flat-chested  old  woman 
with  tight  gray  hair,  who  peered  at  him  through  gold- 
bowed  spectacles.  He  demanded  Mrs.  Buchanan,  and 
the  old  woman's  grim  face  softened  into  something 
which  was  meant  for  a  smile,  and  she  let  him  in. 

"Mis'  Buchanan's  in  the  garden  —  back  of  the 
house,"  she  said.  "She  wa'n't  expectin'  you  till  later 
on,  I  guess.  I'll  let  her  know." 

"Might  I  not  go  through  into  the  garden  and  find 
her  there?"  asked  Faring,  and  the  old  woman  said  she 
supposed  he  might  if  he  wanted  to. 

She  led  him  through  the  long  hallway  which,  with 
doors  at  each  end,  seemingly  bisected  the  square 
house,  and  let  him  out  upon  a  rear  porch  not  unlike 
the  front  one.  Before  him  lay  a  stretch  of  garden, 
bare  yet  save  for  tulips  and  early  crocuses.  A  gravel 
path  led  through  it  to  a  gate  in  a  low  stone-wall,  and, 
beyond  the  wall,  went  on  under  grape-arbors  through 
an  orchard  to  a  little  border  of  turf  beside  a  brook. 

And  here,  on  the  stream's  bank,  wandered  one  in 
white,  tall,  slender,  moving  very  like  a  queen  in  a 
book.  Also  she  sang,  in  a  hushed,  murmuring  voice, 
gay  little  bits  of  song  all  about  spring  and  such. 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

Young  Paring's  heart,  after  that  old  way  it  had, 
leaped  suddenly  and  began  to  race.  A  sort  of  vertigo 
smote  him,  and  under  the  last  of  the  orchard  trees  he 
halted,  breathing  hard.  At  just  that  moment  the 
woman  in  white  by  the  stream's  edge  saw  him,  and 
gave  a  loud  cry. 

He  had  reason  to  believe  that  he  crossed  the  stretch 
of  turf  which  lay  between  them,  but  he  did  not  know 
he  moved.  The  earth  and  the  heavens  above  the 
earth  were  breaking  up,  and  the  elements  were  in 
turmoil,  but  from  a  long  distance  he  heard  cries  and 
murmurings  and  something  like  a  sobbing.  Then  his 
lips  were  burned  with  fire,  and  a  very  exquisite  throb- 
bing, which  was  not  the  throbbing  of  his  own  heart, 
beat  upon  his  breast,  and  the  madness  passed,  leaving 
him  shaken  but  sane. 

After  a  time,  when  he  could  force  words  to  his 
tongue: 

"You  are  going  to  be  married  to-morrow,"  he  said, 
and  was  displeased  to  find  that  his  voice  was  far  from 
steady. 

"You  are  mad,"  said  Beatrix  Buchanan,  her  face 
hidden  upon  his  breast.  "You  are  mad;  but  I  do  not 
care.  I  am  mad,  too.  Of  course,  I  am  not  going  to 
be  married  to-morrow." 

"Wait  and  see,"  said  the  man. 

She  raised  her  face  to  him,  and  that  vertigo  return- 
ed, blinding  his  eyes.  There  was  something  almost 
terrible  in  the  might  of  the  passion  which  swayed  and 
shook  and  engulfed  these  two  who  had  been  so  long 
starved. 

"Do  you  mean  that?"  she  demanded. 

"Wait  and  see,"  said  he  again,  through  darkness. 

"Oh,  I'm  glad!"  she  cried.     "It's  absurd,  and  it's 


WE  WIN    TO    THE    GATES    AT    LAST 

shameless,  and  I  am  not  prepared,  but  I'm  glad.  I 
have  been  alone  too  long.  I'm  glad,  glad,  glad!" 

A  little  child,  Mrs.  Dawlish's  granddaughter,  came 
through  the  orchard  and  found  the  two  there,  white- 
faced,  clinging  together,  speaking  in  half-fierce,  half- 
choked  bursts  of  words,  and  she  was  frightened,  and 
ran  away  whimpering. 

Afterwards,  when  this  first  storm  and  stress  of 
emotion  had  swept  past  them  and  died  away,  leaving 
them  calm  once  more,  they  talked  a  long  time  of  the 
months  gone  by  —  the  months  of  separation  that 
Beatrix  had  decreed.  Faring  told  her  about  the  book 
he  had  been  writing — the  Indian  book,  which  was  now 
finished  and  awaiting  an  autumn  publication.  And 
he  told  her  what  he  knew  of  Arabella  Crowley.  "  She's 
coming  here  to-morrow,"  he  said.  And  of  little  Miss 
Trevor,  who  had  been  none  too  well  during  the  winter. 
And  Beatrix  spoke  of  her  quiet  existence  in  the  little 
village,  and  of  her  friendship  with  the  rector  of  the 
parish  who  had  drawn  her  into  his  work  among  the 
village  poor,  and,  before  she  knew  it,  had  her  almost 
as  busy  and  as  interested  in  it  as  he  was  himself. 

"Oh,  I've  been  very,  very  good,  Harry,"  she  said, 
with  a  little  laugh.  "  I've  been  astonishingly  good.  I 
never  did  anything  of  that  sort  before — working  for 
the  poor  and  the  sick,  you  know.  I  hardly  knew 
that  such  people  existed.  I  don't  quite  know  how  I 
got  so  deeply  into  it.  Yes  I  do,  though.  It  was  that 
blessed  and  angelic  old  man,  the  rector.  He's  good,  if 
you  like.  And  he  has  a  trick  of  making  everybody 
about  him  good.  Harry,  I've  —  don't  laugh!  —  I've 
prayed  this  winter — for  the  first  time.  Really  prayed, 
you  know.  I —  Oh,  well,  what's  the  use  of  trying 
to  tell.  Anyhow,  I've  tried  to  be  good — better.  It 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

was,  I  expect,  by  way  of  trying  to  curry  favor  with 
God  so  that  he  would  let  you  and  me  be  happy  after- 
wards. Savages  do  that,  don't  they?  They  bring 
little  presents  and  sacrifices  and  things,  and  give  them 
to  their  gods  when  they  have  an  especial  reason  for 
wanting  to  be  unmolested.  So  I've  been  a  sort  of 
savage — but  a  very  good  savage.  I've  prayed  very 
hard  that  we  may  be  left  alone  to  make  each  other 
happy — that  nothing  evil  may  come  to  us.  I  wonder 
if  God  has  heard.  Harry!"  She  turned  to  him,  and 
her  face  was  very  earnest  and  a  little  drawn  and  pale. 
"Harry,"  she  said,  "I  wonder  if  we  are  wise  to  marry 
each  other.  If  we  do  not  do  it  I  shall  die,  that's  cer- 
tain. But  I  wonder — I  wonder  if  I  shall  bring  you 
happiness.  It's  a  serious  thing,  this  marrying,  you 
know.  No.  Let  me  talk  on.  Don't  stop  me.  Of 
one  thing  I'm  certain,  anyhow.  Whatever  may  come, 
I  believe  I'm  going  to  make  you  happy.  I  feel  it 
somehow,  as  women  do  feel  things.  I  wonder  if  I'm 
wrong.  I  believe  that  there  are  no  more  troubles  and 
griefs  in  store  for  us.  If  I  thought  not — if  I  thought 
that  I  was  bringing  you  suffering  instead  of  happiness 
— I  should  take  poison  or  something  and  die,  but  I 
feel  strongly  that  you  and  I  are  done  with  griefs. 
And  oh,  I  want  to  make  up  to  you  what  you've  suf- 
fered in  these  last  years !  I  want  so  to  make  your  life 
beautiful,  Harry.  That's  what  I'm  marrying  you  for." 
It  seemed  to  Faring  that  there  was  an  unnecessary 
earnestness  in  her  tone — something  almost  morbid— 
but  he  reflected  that  she  had  been  for  a  long  time 
alone,  brooding  a  great  deal,  doubtless,  and  he  thought 
further  of  what  bitterness  her  former  marriage  had 
brought  upon  her.  It  was  not  strange  that  she 
should  shrink  and  tremble  a  bit.  But  as  soon  as  he 

158 


V 


'NOTHING    WILL    nxn    ITS    WAY    INTO    OUR    GARDEN    TO 

HURT    US    OR    ROB    US    OF    OfR    HAPPINESS 


WE  WIN   TO   THE    GATES   AT    LAST 

could  he  turned  the  talk  to  something  else,  and  pres- 
ently the  vague  trouble  went  out  of  her  eyes  and  the 
color  came  flooding  back  to  her  cheeks. 

"  I  have  a  surprise  for  you,"  she  said.  "  I  wonder  if 
you'll  like  it.  You  must,  though,  for  it's  a  pet  plan 
of  mine,  and  I'm  very  fond  of  it.  Do  you  remember 
the  brick  cottage  with  the  very  beautiful  garden  a 
mile  or  more  beyond  the  Lodge — Buchanan  Lodge? 
It  is  a  part  of  the  estate,  but  it  has  always  been  let  to 
some  one,  at  least  in  the  spring  and  summer  time. 
You  know  it  lies  half  a  mile  in  from  the  high-road  at 
the  end  of  its  own  lane,  and  it  has  a  few  acres  of 
ground  and  a  tiny  stream  and  that  gorgeous  old 
garden.  The  whole  thing  is  quite  out  of  sight  of  the 
Lodge  beyond  a  ridge  of  hills.  Do  you  remember  it  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  he.  "Oh  yes,  I  remember.  A  painter 
chap  and  his  wife  had  it  when  I  knew  it  last.  It's  a 
jolly  place." 

"Well,"  she  said,  "we're  going  to  live  there." 

"In  the  moon,  if  you  like,"  said  he,  laughing. 

"No,  in  my  cottage,"  she  said.  "Harry,  it's  all 
covered  with  ivy  and  wistaria  and  .  .  .  and  there's  a 
sundial  with  .something  Latin  on  it  that  I. can't  read 
— the  sundial  came  from  Tivoli  —  and  there's  a  pool 
with  irises  and  lotos  lilies  and-^-oh,  it's  a  duck  of  a 
cottage!  Think  of  being  buried  there  quite  alone  by 
ourselves  all  summer  long!  Do  you  .want  a  better 
honeymoon?" 

"I  don't,"  said  Faring.  "And  I  want  to  go  now, 
at  once.  When  can  we  go  there?"  She  hid  her  face 
from  him. 

"That's  the  nice  part,"  she  said,  "and  the  shameless 
part.  It's — it's  all  ready  for  us — servants  and  all. 
You  see,"  she  explained,  crimson-cheeked,  "I  was 

159 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

afraid.  I  thought  —  that  is  —  well,  I  thought  you 
might  insist  upon  marrying  me  immediately,  as  you're 
doing,  in  this  indecent  fashion,  and  so  I — I've  been 
quietly  having  them  get  the  cottage  ready,  in  case — 
you  know."  Faring  began  to  laugh,  and  she  beat 
him.  "If  you  laugh  at  me,"  she  said,  "I  shall  cry. 
You're  a  brute,  Harry!" 

"We'll  go  there  to-morrow,"  he  said.  "We'll  send 
cur  luggage  on  in  the  morning  and  motor  down  our- 
selves after  the  great  event  in  that  little  church 
yonder.  So  we  shall  begin  properly." 

Beatrix  looked  up  at  him  and  nodded.  She  could 
not  quite  speak  just  then,  and  she  remained  silent  for 
a  little  time,  smiling  to  herself. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  presently.  "We  shall  begin  prop- 
erly— you  and  I  alone  together — in  our  garden.  Good 
beginnings  make  good  endings,  don't  they,  Harry? 
Don't  they?  Nothing  will  find  its  way  into  our  gar- 
den to  hurt  us  or  rob  us  of  our  happiness." 

She  gave  a  little  shiver. 

"I'm  cold,"  she  said.  "Come  up  to  the  house. 
You  haven't  met  my  cousin,  have  you  ?  She's  a  dear 
old  woman.  Come." 


X 

THE  HOUSE  OP  CLOUD  AND  SUNBEAM 

THAT  year  was  famous  throughout  certain  parts  of 
the  country  for  an  extraordinarily  early  spring. 
By  mid-April  the  fruit  trees  were  white  with  bloom, 
and  the  flowering  shrubs  were  making  the  air  sweet. 
The  month  of  May  was  a  June  come  before  its  time, 
with  roses  and  soft  nights  and  blazing  noontides. 

"It  has  been  arranged,"  said  Beatrix  Faring, 
"solely  in  our  honor — that  our  honeymoon  should  be 
perfect  in  absolutely  every  way  from  the  very  begin- 
ning." She  was  sitting  upon  a  mossy  sundial  and 
sticking  red  roses  in  her  hair  with  vain  intent. 

"Well,  of  all  the  cheek,"  said  her  husband,  "yours 
is  the  cheekiest  I've  met!  Claiming  the  very  weather 
now,  are  you?  You're  a  bit  grasping." 

"Grasp  all  I  choose,"  she  said,  calmly.  "I  have  no 
shame  whatever,  so  you  needn't  call  names.  I'm  be- 
yond their  reach.  As  for  this  weather,  it  is  ours,  and 
it  was  made  for  us.  Dieu  merci!  Are  you  glad  you 
married  me?" 

"Yes,"  said  Faring,  without  hesitation,  "I  am." 
And  his  wife  laughed.  It  had  been  so  like  him  to  say 
just  that  without  ornamentation. 

"What  a  chance  for  a  flowery  speech!"  she  said. 
"And  lost,  completely  lost,  ignored.  Harry,  my 
good  man,  you  have  less  small  talk  than  anybody  I 

161 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

ever  knew.  Less,  I  think,  than  anybody  who  ever 
lived  —  except  Stambolof,  who  has  no  talk  at  all. 
What  a  very  good  thing  it  is  that  you  didn't  live  in 
the  days  of  euphuism.  It  would  be  so  difficult  for 
you  to  make  little  poems  about  my  eyelashes,  or  the 
way  I  walk,  or  the  way  I  do  my  hair.  You  wouldn't 
look  at  all  well  mooning  about  with  your  hair  un- 
combed and  your  clothes  unpressed.  It's  not  your 
form." 

Faring  shook  his  head  with  a  little  sigh. 

"No,  I  expect  it  isn't,"  he  said.  "I'm  sorry.  I 
rather  wish  it  were.  I  mean  to  say  I  wish  I  could 
say  the  sort  of  things  I  want  to  say  —  the  sort  of 
things  I  think.  I  know  all  about  your  eyelashes,  and 
the  way  you  walk,  and  how  you  do  your  hair,  and 
several  million  other  things,  and  I — I  love  them  all, 
too.  Jove,  I  should  think  I  do!  But  I'm  so  con- 
foundedly tongue-tied.  You  know,  when  you're  not  in 
sight  I  think  of  heaps  of  things  that  I  want  to  say,  and 
I  could  say  'em,  too,  just  then.  Only  when  you  come 
back  again  everything  goes  out  of  my  head,  but — but 
you,  you  know,  and  I  can't  do  anything  but  stare. 
And — my  heart  begins  to  go  off  at  a  tremendous  pace, 
and  I —  What  a  rotter  I  am  when  it  comes  to  putting 
things!" 

He  was  standing  close  before  her,  as  she  sat  on  the 
high  sundial,  with  his  hands  resting  on  the  moss- 
covered  stone,  one  on  either  side.  Beatrix  slipped 
down  to  her  feet,  and  his  arms  closed  behind  her  and 
she  laid  her  face  on  his  breast. 

"If  you  were  the  littlest  bit  different  to  what  you 
are,"  she  said,  "I  should  loathe  you  —  and  I  should 
never  have  married  you — and  we  shouldn't  be  here 
among  our  roses,  and — and  I  love  you  very  much,  and 

162 


CLOUD  AND    SUNBEAM 

I  don't  mind  your  knowing  it.  There!  Come  and 
walk.  I  want  to  move  about.  The  sun  is  down  now, 
so  it  will  be  cooler." 

They  walked  slowly  down  through  the  garden,  and 
Beatrix  went,  leaning  back  against  her  husband's 
shoulder,  her  head  in  the  hollow  of  his  neck,  while  his 
arm  held  her  from  stumbling.  It  was  a  way  they  had. 
They  went  down  through  the  ranks  of  roses  and 
through  a  tangle  of  old-fashioned  garden  below  where 
grew  larkspurs  and  love-in-a-mist  and  sweet-will- 
iams and  little  spice  -  pinks  and  phlox,  and  such 
pleasant  things,  and  came  to  a  stretch  of  open  where 
the  artificial  pool,  with  its  Eastern  water-plants,  lay 
still  and  dark  and  sleeping.  Here  a  path  mounted 
gently  a  rise  of  ground,  a  rocky  knoll  upon  whose 
summit,  under  an  open,  sheltering  roof,  dwelt  an  un- 
clothed lady — crippled  as  well,  for  she  had  but  one 
arm  —  called  Phryne,  an  Italian  lady  of  a  ripe  age, 
though  she  posed  for  Greek  of  a  riper  age  still.  About 
this  shameless  and  not  over-truthful  person  stood  a 
semicircle  of  stone  benches,  much  given  over  to  war- 
ring or  love-making  birds,  and  from  these  benches,  sit- 
ting, one  looked  westward  across  a  half-mile  of  moor 
upon  the  sea. 

Beatrix  Faring  and  her  lord  came  under  the  shelter- 
ing roof,  and  disposed  themselves  upon  one  of  the  stone 
benches.  As  they  had  walked  they  sat,  the  woman's 
shoulders  upon  her  husband's  breast,  her  head  laid  back 
into  the  hollow  of  his  neck.  A  number  of  argumenta- 
tive sparrows  got  up  and  left  the  place,  jeering  rudely. 

Beatrix  looked  out  from  half-shut  eyes  upon  the 
tranquil  sea,  where  pearly  evening  lights  shimmered 
and  changed. 

"A  month,"  she  said,  slowly.  "One  little,  little 
163 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

month.  A  month  is  a  tiny  thing,  isn't  it  ?  But  what 
an  immensity,  what  a  lifetime,  what  a  cycle  it  has  been 
for  you  and  me,  highness!  What  other  undreamed-of 
worlds  it  has  opened!  What  mountain -peaks  we've 
climbed,  unafraid  and  unashamed!  Do  you  remember 
my  writing  to  you  once  that  my  life  must  henceforth 
be  in  the  valleys — where  the  shadows  were — that  the 
peaks  were  not  for  me?  Ah,  weren't  they,  though! 
Peaks,  indeed!  I  live  and  move  and  have  my  pas- 
sionate being,"  she  said,  still  slowly,  "in  a  sort  of 
dream,  a  golden  haze,  a  rose-tinted  cloud.  Live?  Do 
we  indeed  live,  Harry?  Where's  the  rest  of  the 
world,  then,  that  should  live  about  us?  Is  there  a 
world  ?  I  have  not  seen  it,  nor  heard  it,  nor  given  it 
thought.  We  two  have  left  the  world.  It  cannot 
touch  us.  It  is  great  distances  away.  We  two  on 
our  mountain -peak  know  nothing  of  worlds  and  the 
little  things  that  swarm  about  them.  Our  faces  are 
turned  to  glories  that  they  cannot  see.  Our  hearts 
shake  with  raptures  that  they  could  not  bear."  She 
moved  her  head  gently  against  his  cheek. 

"Harry,"  she  said,  and  Faring  waited  for  her  to  go 
on  when  she  paused  after  the  name.  "Harry,"  she 
said  again,  presently,  "how  —  dear  to  you  has  this 
month  of  ours  been?  What  would  you  be  willing  to 
pay  for  it  if  you  had  to  pay  ?  If  our  happiness  should 
end  to-night,  if  you  should  by  some  miracle  find  your- 
self back  again  in  that  hopeless,  interminable  desert 
of  waiting?  Or,  worse  still,  if,  as  the  price  of  what 
we've  had,  you  must  suffer  misery,  shame,  dishonor, 
would  you  still  be  glad  of  our  month  here,  or  would 
you  think  the  price  too  high?  Tell  me!" 

"Dishonor!"  said  he,  picking  the  one  word  that  she 
knew  he  would  pick. 

164 


CLOUD    AND    SUNBEAM 

"Yes,"  she  said,  steadily,  "even  dishonor." 

"That's  a  strong  word,  Betty,"  he  said.  "I  don't 
know —  Ah,  but  it's  absurd!  You're  putting  an  im- 
possible case.  How  could  we  have  to  pay  for  our 
happiness  by  dishonor  ?  It's  impossible.  We've  done 
no  sin  in  marrying  each  other.  Dearest,  don't  put 
morbid  questions  to  yourself  or  to  me.  It's  going  out 
of  your  way  for  unhappiness." 

"  But,"  she  argued,  with  a  little  laugh,  "  I  have  to  go 
out  of  my  way  for  unhappiness.  There  is  none  near 
me,  thank  God!" 

"Thank  God!"  said  he. 

"So  let  me  spin  my  foolish  fancies,"  she  said. 
"They  can  do  no  harm.  They  will  not  make  me  sad, 
for  I  live  in  regions  above  and  beyond  sadness — above 
and  beyond  all  woes.  I  cannot  see  them  even  when  I 
look  down  from  my  clouds.  But  somewhere  below  us, 
Harry,  people  go  about  in  misery  as  we  used  to  go; 
people  walk  in  shadows  as  we  used  to  walk.  My 
heart  bleeds  for  them — a  little,  as  much  as  a  heart  can 
that's  away  up  in  a  heaven  of  its  own  with  only  one 
other  heart — a  heart  that's  selfish,  and  very  mad  with 
joy,  and  bewildered  still  over  finding  that  such  joy 
exists.  Look!  There's  our  cloud,  your  cloud  and 
mine,  Harry,  where  we  live  above  the  world!" 

She  pointed  westward,  high  over  the  sea,  where  a 
single  small  cloud  hung  motionless.  It  was  rosy  with 
the  last  glow  of  the  hidden  sun,  rosy  and  golden  and 
opalescent  together,  a  solid  thing  of  fixed,  unchanging 
contour,  a  throne  of  pearl,  a  couch  of  unspeakable 
splendor,  a  dwelling  fit,  indeed,  for  two  such  love- 
enthralled  hearts  as  Beatrix  Faring  talked  of. 

But  somewhere  down  beyond  the  sea's  far  rim  there 
would  seem  to  have  been  other  drifting  veils  which 

165 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

just  then  caught  and  draped  the  hidden  sun;  for,  as 
the  man  and  woman  watched,  suddenly  the  western 
glow  paled  and  grayed,  and  those  tints  of  rose  and 
pearl  began  to  die  from  the  heart's  throne  of  splendor. 

Beatrix  gave  a  little  cry. 

"Ah,  it's  fading,  fading!"  she  said.  "It's  dying, 
Harry!"  And  she  shook  from  head  to  foot  with  a 
quick  shiver.  "It's  dying!"  she  said  again,  and  put 
up  her  hands  over  her  face. 

"Can  nothing  last?"  she  said.  "Must  everything 
go  like  that?  Pale  and  fade  away  until  it's  dead? 
Not  love,  Harry — not  love!  That's  immortal.  Say  it! 
I  want  to  hear  you  say  it!  I  want  to  believe  it. 
Love's  immortal,  isn't  it?  Ah,  I'm  a  fool!  I  must 
be  nervous  to-night.  And  I  thought  I  had  done  with 
nerves.  I'm  a  fool!"  She  turned  her  face  away 
from  the  western  sea,  so  that,  lying  upon  the  man's 
breast,  it  touched  his  bent  cheek. 

"Say  something!"  she  begged.  "Talk  to  me.  I 
talk,  and  talk,  and  talk — such  wandering,  foolish  non- 
sense, and  you  say  nothing.  Tell  me — things.  I  don't 
want  to  talk  any  more.  I  want  to  listen." 

"  What  shall  I  say  ?"  he  demanded.  "  Talking's  not 
my — line,  you  know.  I  can  do  almost  anything  else 
better." 

"You  might  tell  me,"  she  suggested,  with  a  little, 
whispering  laugh,  "how  very  much  nicer  I  am  than 
other  people.  Or  would  that  be  too  much  of  a  struggle 
for  you  ?  You  might  tell  me  how  much  you — cared  in 
those  days  when  you  thought  we  could  never  be — 
here,  like  this." 

She  felt  the  muscles  of  his  neck  and  shoulder  draw 
tight  in  the  sudden  movement  he  made,  a  movement 
like  a  shiver,  and,  without  looking  up,  she  knew  how 

166 


CLOUD    AND    SUNBEAM 

his  face  must  be  as  the  picture  of  those  desert  days 
came  bitterly  before  him.  It  was  more  eloquent  to 
her  than  any  words  could  have  been,  pleased  her  far 
more  than  anything  he  could  have  said,  however  im- 
passioned. 

"I'm  afraid  I — can't  talk  about  that,"  he  said,  with 
the  odd,  hurried  shyness  which  always  came  upon  him 
in  a  moment  of  strong  feeling.  "It's  too  much  of  a 
nightmare  —  like  the  horrible  thing  that  one  sees  in 
a  fever.  And  speaking  of  fever" — he  gave  a  little 
laugh — "there's  a  chap  out  in  China  now  who  knows 
more  about  you  and  me — I  mean  to  say  about  how 
much  I — cared,  and  all  that — than  he  ought  to  know. 
But  he's  a  good  chap — he  doesn't  gossip.  He  doesn't 
talk  at  all  except  to  ask  for  what  he  wants  or  to  give 
orders,  so  it's  all  right.  You  see,  he  was  with  me  on 
the  upper  Orinoco  a  year  ago  last  winter.  You  were 
in  Paris  then,  and  I  had  a  bad  go  of  swamp-fever,  and 
was  off  my  head  for  days.  This  chap,  whose  name  is 
Browning,  saw  me  through  it — nursed  me  like  a  wom- 
an. Then,  when  it  was  over  with,  he  asked  the  only 
unnecessary  question  I  ever  heard  from  him.  He 
asked  me  who  'Betty'  was,  and  why  in  God's  name  I 
didn't  marry  her  instead  of  talking  about  it  so  much. 
I  seemed  to  have  bored  him  dreadfully." 

Beatrix  put  up  a  hand  and  touched  his  cheek. 

" Oh,  Harry,  Harry!"  she  mourned.  "  You  all  alone 
down  in  that  horrible  wilderness,  ill,  in  danger  of 
death,  and  I  not  by  to  care  for  you!  No,  you're  right. 
Let's  not  think  of  it.  It's  too  much  like  a  nightmare. 
I  ache  to  think  of  it."  But  after  a  little  she  gave  a 
small  laugh. 

"Your  Browning  man  is  a  beast!"  she  said.  "I  ex- 
pect he  hated  my  very  name,  didn't  he  ?  I  expect  he 

"  167 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

hated  all  women.  He  sounds  like  that  sort  of  man. 
Ah,  well,  let  him  wait!  One  day  a  woman  will  take 
him  in  hand  and  civilize  him." 

"He  wore  a  locket  about  his  neck  on  a  chain,"  said 
Faring.  "  I  fancy  some  one  had  civilized  him  already, 
or  broken  his  heart,  maybe.  It's  the  same." 

"No  talk  of  broken  hearts,  my  dear,"  said  Beatrix. 
"Broken  hearts  are  things  we,  on  our  mountain-peak, 
know  nothing  of.  They're  barred  from  our  paradise — 
forever.  Hold  me  close,  highness.  I'm — sleepy." 

So,  in  such  lotos-land  fashion,  these  two  lived  and 
had  their  enraptured  being.  They  dwelt,  as  the  wom- 
an had  said,  in  a  sort  of  dream,  an  enduring  trance. 
It  was  as  if  they  had  been  literally  and  physically 
caught  up  into  that  pearl-tinted  cloud  of  her  fancy, 
very  far  above  the  world  and  the  world's  life.  It  is 
entirely  impossible  to  give  any  picture,  however  in- 
adequate, of  such  an  existence,  because  no  great  ex- 
altation, whether  of  spirit  or  of  heart,  has  any  outward 
tangible  characteristics  which  may  be  described.  To 
understand  such  a  state  requires  a  corresponding  ex- 
altation, and  words  cannot  produce  that. 

Of  their  friends  they  were,  during  this  time,  entirely 
careless.  They  had  neither  eyes  to  see  nor  ears  to 
hear,  and  to  their  friends  they  were  a  source  of  wonder 
and  exasperation. 

Arabella  Crowley,  who  was  settled  in  her  Bay- 
chester  place,  Red  Rose,  occasionally  motored  over  to 
see  them,  but  she  invariably  retreated  using  language 
which  was  almost  unlady-like. 

"I  wash  my  hands  of  them!"  she  said,  furiously,  for 
the  twentieth  time  to  little  Miss  Trevor,  who  was 
spending  the  month  of  June  with  her.  "They  are  in- 

168 


CLOUD   AND    SUNBEAM 

sufEerable.  They  were  positively  rude  to  me  to-day. 
I  wash  my  hands  of  them!" 

Miss  Trevor  laughed. 

"You're  always  washing  your  hands  of  people, 
Aunt  Arabella,"  she  said.  "Your  hands  must  be  in- 
ordinately clean."  She  gave  a  little  sigh. 

"But  they  are  rather  impossible,  aren't  they?"  she 
said.  "I'm  almost  sorry  I  promised  to  go  to  them 
for  this  week-end.  When  Betty  asked  me  I  really 
thought  she  meant  it,  and  I  said  yes  on  the  spur  of 
the  moment,  but  I'll  wager  something  that  she  has 
long  since  forgotten  I'm  coming,  and  that  she'll  be 
sorry  to  see  me.  I  expect  there  will  be  no  one  else 
there,  and  I  shall  have  a  very  dull  time." 

"They'd  best  not  ask  me  to  come  to  them  for  any 
week-ends!"  said  the  old  woman,  grimly.  "I  should 
express  myself  with  a  freedom  that  would  make  them 
jump,  I  think.  They're  quite  too  ridiculous.  You'd 
think  that  no  one  was  ever  in  love  before  or  ever  mar- 
ried, to  hear  them  go  on.  They  have  not  the  slightest 
glimmer  of  any  humor  left  in  them — not  that  either  of 
them  ever  had  any  to  spare  at  any  time.  They  take 
each  other  with  a  tragic  solemnity  that  makes  me 
want  to  slap  them  both." 

"I  expect  that's  just  it,  isn't  it?"  said  the  girl. 
"They  have  no  sense  of  humor  at  all.  They  are 
tragic.  It — it  frightens  me  somehow.  There's  some- 
thing fatal  about  it.  It's  unnatural.  And,  of  course,  it 
can't  go  on  forever.  I  wonder  what  will  happen  ?  It 
reminds  me,"  she  said,  "of  what  certain  people  in 
Paris  used  to  tell  me  about  the  marriage  of  the  Earl 
of  Strope's  son,  Lord  Stratton,  to  the  elder  Isabeau  de 
Monsigny,  the  present  Isabeau's  mother.  She  died 
when  the  child  was  a  year  or  so  old.  It  seems  that 

169 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

those  two  were  just  as  passionately  and  seriously  in 
love  as  Betty  and  Harry  Faring  are,  and  just  as  care- 
less of  the  rest  of  the  world.  They  had  no  humor, 
either,  and  I  expect  people  can't  live  long  without  it. 
These  people  told  me  that  Lord  Stratton  and  his  wife 
together  were  a  sight  that  no  one  could  ever  forget. 
They  said  that  the  two  would  walk  about  the  park  at 
Monsigny  for  hours,  never  saying  a  word,  but  moving 
so  that  they  touched  each  other  as  they  walked. 
They  said  that  Isabeau  could  never  be  in  the  room 
-with  her  husband  without  being  near  him,  touching 
him  somewhere.  It  was  very,  very  beautiful,  but,  of 
course,  it  couldn't  last.  What  will  happen  to  these 
two,  do  you  think?" 

Mrs.  Crowley  stirred  impatiently. 

"Oh,  they  will  tire  of  making  gods  of  each  other 
eventually,"  she  said,  "and  they'll  become  sensible 
human  beings  like  the  rest  of  us,  I  expect.  I  wish 
they  wouldn't  be  so  long  about  it.  They  are  a  great 
trial  to  me." 

The  girl  shook  her  head. 

"They're  too  serious  and  too  exalted  to  come  down 
easily  from  their  clouds,"  she  said.  "I'm  afraid.  I 
can't  help  fearing  that  it  will  end  in  some  tragedy. 
I'm  afraid." 

But,  oddly  enough,  when  tragedy  came,  it  was  first 
to  her — lightning  out  of  a  blue  sky. 


XI 

STAMBOLOF    GOES 

SHE  spent  the  week  -  end  with  the  Farings,  as  had 
been  arranged,  and  the  time  passed  not  so  ill  as 
she  had  feared.  It  was  not  gay,  to  be  sure;  for  there 
was  no  one  else  at  the  cottage,  Beatrix  apologized, 
with  a  little,  half -ashamed  laugh.  "  We  have  neglected 
people  so,"  she  said,  "that  now  I  simply  dare  not  ask 
any  one  here.  Every  one  is  angry  at  us."  Still  the 
two  lovers  made  a  heroic  effort  to  descend  from  their 
heights  and  play  a  brief  role  as  human  beings,  and  the 
Saturday  and  Sunday  passed  pleasantly  enough. 

It  was  on  Monday  morning  that  the  blow  came. 
The  three  were  sitting  on  the  long,  shaded  garden 
porch  of  the  house  waiting  for  Arabella  Crowley's 
motor,  which  was  to  come  and  bear  Miss  Trevor  and 
her  portmanteau  back  to  Red  Rose. 

As  they  sat  there  talking  a  servant  brought  the 
letters  which  had  come  in  the  morning  post,  and 
Beatrix  Faring  held  up  one  of  them  with  an  exclama- 
tion of  surprise.  . 

"From  Paris,"  she  said.  "And  a  very  fat  letter, 
too.  See  all  the  stamps.  It's  not  from  Lord  Strope 
or  from  Stambolof,  for  I  know  their  hands."  She  held 
the  envelope  out  towards  Alianor  Trevor. 

"Do  you  recognize  the  writing?"  she  asked. 

A  touch  of  pink  came  into  the  girl's  cheeks. 

171 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

"It  is  from  Mr.  Braithwaite,  I  think,"  she  said. 

"What  in  the  world,"  cried  the  elder  woman,  "can 
he  be  writing  me  such  a  huge  letter  about?  To  be 
sure,  he  sent  us  a  gorgeous  wedding  present,  but  we 
never  write  to  each  other."  She  tore  open  the  en- 
velope, and  unfolded  the  many  sheets. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Faring,'"  she  read,  aloud,  "Boris 
Stambolof  is  dead,  and  after — "  She  gave  a  sharp 
cry  of  horror,  and  her  eyes  flashed  swiftly  towards 
Alianor  Trevor.  The  written  sheets  slipped  from  her 
lap  to  the  floor  of  the  porch,  and  lay  there  scattered. 
The  girl  had  risen  to  her  feet,  and  stood  before  her 
chair  very  white  but  silent.  Her  hands  were  pressed 
together  over  her  heart.  Mrs.  Faring  started  up 
towards  her. 

"Oh,  dearest,  dearest!"  she  cried,  sobbing,  "I  didn't 
— know.  I  should  have  been  careful.  I  read  without 
thinking.  Oh,  how  terrible!"  But  the  girl  pushed 
her  back  when  she  would  have  taken  her  into  her  arms. 

"Please — go  on,"  she  said,  very  quietly.  "Please 
read  the  letter.  I  am — not  sorry.  He  wished  to  die. 
I — oh,  please,  please  go  on!  Don't  you  see  that  I 
cannot  bear  waiting!" 

Beatrix  groped  blindly  for  the  sheets  of  the  letter, 
and  she  looked  towards  her  husband,  who  nodded 
gravely  back  at  her.  She  tried  to  read,  but  her  hands 
holding  the  paper  shook  nervously,  and  she  thrust  the 
thing  towards  Faring. 

"I — cannot,"  she  said.  "Read  it,  Harry!"  and  Far- 
ing went  on  with  what  young  Braithwaite  had  written. 

"'After  consulting  with  Lord  Strope,'"  he  read,  "'I 
have  decided  to  write  to  you  and  tell  you  how  his 
death  came  about,  and  to  ask  you  to  break  the  thing 

172 


STAMBOLOF    GOES 

as  gently  as  you  can  to  Miss  Trevor.  It  seems  to  me 
very  terrible  that  I  should  have  to  be  messenger  of 
such  news  to  her,  because,  as  I  think  you  know,  I  care 
for  her  more  than  for  any  one  else  living,  and  she  loved 
Boris  Stambolof.  Still  it  must  be  I  who  shall  tell,  for 
I  was  with  Stambolof  to  the  end  and  after,  and  there 
is  no  one  to  relieve  me  of  my  unwelcome  task. 

"'You  know,  I  believe,  about  that  unfortunate 
affair  of  ten  years  ago — the  affair  that  wrecked  Stam- 
bolof's  life  and  put  an  end  to  the  life  of  the  Countess 
Amelie  de  Colonne  as  well  as — so  it  was  thought — to 
the  life  of  her  husband.  It  has  been  believed  without 
question  that  Stambolof,  in  a  very  informal  duel, 
killed  the  Count  de  Colonne  because  de  Colonne  had 
grossly  insulted  his  wife  at  a  dinner-party  at  Chateau 
Colonne,  near  Fontainebleau.  Well,  it  appears  that 
though  the  Frenchman  was  left  for  dead  in  the  hall 
of  his  chateau,  there  remained  some  spark  of  life  in 
him,  and  a  certain  faithful  old  servant  discovered  this, 
and  secretly  nursed  his  master  back  to  health.  Then, 
as  secretly,  Colonne  went  away,  and  spent  ten  years  in 
the  East  and  among  the  Pacific  islands.  It  seems  to 
have  come  to  him,  during  these  years,  that  he  had 
behaved  like  a  blackguard  towards  his  beautiful  young 
wife,  whom  he  had  really  loved  very  much  in  spite  of 
his  ugly  temper  and  his  mad  jealousy,  and  that,  at 
last,  he  felt  that  he  must  come  back  to  Europe,  find 
Stambolof,  if  possible,  and  beg  him  to  finish  the  work 
which  he  had  bungled  ten  years  before. 

'"I  am  aware  that  this,  stated  briefly  and,  as  it 
were,  coldly,  sounds  very  absurd,  but  I  cannot  at- 
tempt to  give  you  the  man's  feeling  over  the  matter 
as  I  heard  it  from  his  own  lips.  You  must  try  to  com- 
prehend that  these  ten  years  of  aimless  wandering  had 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

been  for  him  ten  years  of  an  exceedingly  bitter  hell 
of  remorse  and  pain  and  self-loathing.  He  was,  I 
think,  wellnigh  mad  from  it  all  when,  four  nights  ago, 
the  evening  of  the  twenty-sixth  of  May,  Stambolof  and 
I  came  quite  by  accident  upon  him  in  a  restaurant 
here  in  Paris.  I,  of  course,  did. not  know  him,  but 
Stambolof  did  at  once.  Only  -he  thought  the  man  was 
a  ghost,  a  spirit,  come  to  haunt  him,  and,  literally, 
he  very  nearly  fainted  away  on  the  spot. 

"'Without  going  into  wearisome  detail,  I  will  say 
simply  that  after  an  hour  of  talk,  which  was  mostly 
devoted  to  the  Frenchman's  nerve-shattered  self- 
recriminations  and  prayers  to  Stambolof  to  end  his 
torture,  the  two  agreed  that  the  unfinished  duel  must 
be  refought.  Stambolof,  to  my  surprise,  took  the 
idea  rather  as  a  matter  of  course.  He  seemed  to  need 
no  urging.  It  seemed  as  if  he  felt  it  a  sacred  and 
solemn  duty  to  rid  the  earth  of  Henri  de  Colonne. 
And  yet  he  seemed  no  longer  to  feel  any  animosity 
towards  the  man.  He  took  his  hand,  and  spoke  to 
him,  throughout  the  talk,  with  something  more  than 
courtesy.  Indeed,  I  think  no  one  could  have  felt  bit- 
terness towards  that  broken,  haunted  wreck  who 
trembled  and  wept  the  while  he  begged  for  death  at 
the  hands  of  his  old  enemy. 

"'It  was  somewhat  before  midnight  when  we  fin- 
ished our  talk — when  the  two  men  concerned  finished, 
I  should  say — for  I  had  no  part  in  it,  and  tried  more 
than  once  to  get  away.  But  there  was  still  a  train  to 
be  had  from  the  Gare  de  Lyon  which  would  take  us 
to  one  of  the  Fontainebleau  stations  where  Colonne 's 
trap  would  meet  us.  He  had  meant  in  any  case  to  go 
out  on  that  late  train.  So  we  three  drove  to  the  Gare 
de  Lyon,  and  at  Bois-le-Roi  left  the  train  and  drove 

174 


STAMBOLOF    GOES 

for  a  half-hour  through  the  forest  to  Chateau  Colonne. 
It  had  been  agreed  that  the  meeting  should  take  place 
at  the  first  light  of  the  morning.  Of  course,  the  affair 
was  most  irregular  and  quite  in  violation  of  any  code, 
but  so  had  been  that  first  encounter  ten  years  before, 
and  I  think  Stambolof  had  no  heart  to  deny  poor 
Colonne's  prayers  for  haste. 

"'As  for  me,  I  have  no  heart  to  go  on  with  what  I 
must  tell.  The  climax  which  came  in  the  dawn  of  the 
next  morning  was  so  unlocked  for.  I  think  no  one  of 
us  three  had  ever  for  an  instant  considered  it  as  even 
possible.  The  affair  was  to  be  almost  in  the  nature 
of  an  execution,  and  though  Stambolof,  before  the  two 
crossed  swords,  made  the  Frenchman  swear  solemnly 
that  he  would  fight  to  his  utmost,  that  he  would  not 
throw  his  life  away,  I  know  that  he  himself  expected 
to  take  no  harm  from  the  encounter. 

"'They  fought  out  on  a  little  stretch  of  turf  beside 
a  stream  which  runs  behind  the  chateau.  Besides 
myself  there  was  only  a  priest  and  one  servant  to  see. 
They  fought  two  engagements  with  no  result,  save  that 
de  Colonne  had  a  trifling  scratch  upon  his  forehead. 
Then,  in  the  third,  by  one  of  those  accidents  which  are 
so  common  in  sword-play,  Boris  Stambolof  was  run 
through  the  body,  and  died  in  less  than  five  minutes. 
Before  he  died,  as  he  lay  there  on  the  turf  with  his 
head  resting  on  my  knees,  he  asked  me  to  open  a  cer- 
tain gold  locket  which  he  wore  on  a  chain  about  his 
neck.  I  opened  it,  and  held  it  before  his  eyes,  and  held 
it  to  his  lips  so  that  he  might  kiss  it.  It  contained  a 
very  beautifully  executed  miniature  of  Ame'lie  de 
Colonne.  He  went  very  peacefully.  He  must  have 
felt  pain,  but  his  face  showed  it  very  little,  only  as  he 
drew  breath.  And  once  he  said,  in  a  whisper: 

175 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

""'I  am  glad!     Oh,  I  am  glad!" 

'"He  was  glad,  I  am  sure.  Death  came  to  him  as 
a  very  sweet  and  unlooked-for  boon.  And  so  I  sup- 
pose we  should  be  glad,  too,  though  for  my  part  I  can- 
not be.  I  was  fond  of  him.  For  some  years  he  had 
been  almost  an  elder  brother  to  me.  Also  I  think  of 
Miss  Trevor,  and  know  what  a  shock  this  tragedy  will 
be  to  her.  To  my  mind  that  is  the  very  saddest  of 
all. 

"'I  have  read  this  letter  through,  and  I  find  that  I 
have  expressed  myself  very  ill.  Alas!  I  have  no  skill 
with  my  pen.  I  must  wait  until  I  see  you  to  tell  you 
more  fully  of  the  unfortunate  affair,  to  go  into  fuller 
detail.  When  that  will  be  I  cannot  at  the  moment 
definitely  say.  I  must  let  at  least  the  first  bitterness 
of  grief  pass  before  I  shall  dare  approach  Miss  Trevor. 
But  as  soon  as  I  think  it  decent  and  wise  I  mean  to 
come  to  her  and  beg  her  to  give  me  another  answer 
to  the  question  I  asked  last  year  in  Paris.  My  case 
may  be  forever  hopeless,  but  until  I  hear  from  her  own 
lips  that  it  is  so  I  must  hope. 

"'Lord  Strope  asks  me  to  say  that  he  will  write 
within  the  next  week. 

"With  apologies  and  regrets  for  so  poorly  accom- 
plishing my  unpleasant  duty,  I  am, 
'"Faithfully  yours. 

'"GERALD  BRAITHWAITE."' 

Little  Miss  Trevor  had  sat  through  the  reading  of 
Braithwaite's  letter  in  perfect  silence,  her  eyes  on  the 
ground,  her  hands  still  in  her  lap.  At  the  end  she 
rose  quietly  and  went  into  the  house.  Beatrix  called 
out  after  her,  and  followed  her  to  the  door,  but,  at  the 
door,  stopped,  and  after  a  moment  turned  back. 

176 


STAMBOLOF    GOES 

"I  cannot — comfort  her,"  she  said.  "Poor  child!  I 
cannot  comfort  her.  She's  best  alone."  She  came 
slowly  across  the  porch  to  where  her  husband  stood, 
and  moved  close  to  him,  as  if  his  nearness  gave  her 
the  comfort  she  could  not  bring  to  the  girl  who  had 
gone  in-doors,  but  she  did  not  touch  him  or  look  up. 
She  stood  there  for  a  long  time  in  silence  staring  out 
across  the  gardens.  Then  at  last  she  said,  very  sadly: 

"The  first  shadow  —  across  our  paradise,  Harry! 
That  poor,  stricken  child!  I  wish  I  could  soothe  her, 
but  I  cannot.  No  one  could.  She  loved  him  in  her 
hopeless,  adoring  fashion.  She'll  marry  Gerald  Braith- 
waite,  though,  in  time.  The  first  shadow!"  She  drew 
her  shoulders  together  in  a  little  shiver,  and  Faring 
slipped  an  arm  about  them  and  drew  her  closer  to 
him. 

"  I  don't  grieve  for  Stambolof ,"  she  said,  presently. 
"He  wished  to  die.  He  was  only  waiting.  Oh, 
Harry,  I  do  not  grieve  very  much  for  anybody.  Some- 
how I  can't.  I  cannot  feel  acutely  for  other  people's 
suffering.  It's — terrible,  rather.  I'm  dulled  by  happi- 
ness. It's  almost  shameful,  isn't  it?  I  am  so  selfish, 
so  wrapped  in  content  and  joy  that  nothing  from  out- 
side, however  cruel  and  bitter,  seems  of  much  im- 
portance to  me — not  even  Stambolof 's  death,  and  I 
ought  to  feel  that  keenly.  I  suppose  Stambolof  was 
one  of  the  faithfulest  friends  I  ever  had.  I  wonder, 
Harry,  if  great  happiness  is  always  so — ruthless  ?"  She 
spoke  in  a  tone  of  questioning,  but  Faring  did  not  re- 
ply, for  he  did  not  know  the  answer  to  that.  It  was 
a  habit  of  hers,  this  venturing  aloud  into  the  philo- 
sophical aspect  of  anything  which  came  to  her  mind, 
this  putting  of  great  questions.  But  to  the  questions 
she  seemed  to  expect  no  answer,  and  Faring  was  not 

177 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

of  that  superior  and  unhesitating  class  of  men  who 
have  a  set  of  ready-prepared  judgments  upon  all  the 
whys  and  wherefores  with  which  humanity  eternally 
tortures  itself.  He  was,  as  he  had  so  often  said  to 
her,  tongue-tied,  and  that  was  a  very  good  thing, 
since  it  is  a  matter  of  general  knowledge  that  no  two 
philosophically  inclined  people  can  live  together  for  a 
month  at  a  time  without  cutting  each  other's  throats 
or  going  into  a  nervous  decline. 

And  so  in  this  present  instance,  as  in  others,  he 
wisely  held  his  tongue,  and  instead  of  answering  he 
drew  his  wife  closer  to  him  so  that  she  stood  in  the 
circle  of  his  arms,  leaning  back  after  her  favorite 
fashion  against  his  breast,  and  they  looked  out  over 
the  beauty  and  sweetness  of  their  rose  garden,  where 
the  morning  sun  was  drying  the  dew,  and  questions 
seemed  to  them  very  far  away  and  of  small  moment, 
very  alien  and  faint  with  distance,  questions  and  sor- 
rows and  deaths  and  all  such  foreign  things  which 
surely  were  forever  walled  out  from  that  paradise 
wherein  they  dwelt. 


BOOK    III 


A    LITTLE    GRAY   TRAMP    ARRIVES 

FATE  gave  them  exactly  three  months  —  three 
months  to  a  day — of  a  happiness  probably  as  great 
as  any  two  people  have  ever  known,  much  greater  than 
most  people  could  even  imagine,  then  it  came  time  for 
the  reaping  of  that  harvest  which  the  woman  had  sown. 
Only — where  one  sowed,  two  went  to  the  reaping, 
which  is  the  way  of  the  world. 

On  the  morning  of  July  loth  Faring  set  off  alone 
upon  a  long-delayed  journey  to  New  York  and  to  Wash- 
ington, where  there  were  a  number  of  important  and 
pressing  matters  which  demanded  his  personal  atten- 
tion. He  was  to  be  gone  three  days  —  an  eternity! 
And,  at  first,  when  it  was  found  that  the  long-neglected 
affairs  might  no  longer  be  neglected,  and  that  the  jour- 
ney must  be  made,  Beatrix  had  firmly  refused  to  allow 
him  to  go  alone. 

"Of  course  I  shall  go  with  you!"  she  said.  "Natu- 
rally! If  I  remained  here  I  should  die  before  the  first 
day  was  done."  But  as  they  spoke  more  of  it,  and  it 
appeared  that  Faring  must  be  very  busily  occupied 
during  the  whole  of  the  time,  she  altered  her  first 
determination  and,  upon  her  husband's  advice,  decided 
to  stay  at  home.  Moreover,  the  weather  was  very  hot, 
and  travelling  would  be  a  torture.  There  was  another 
thing  also  to  influence  her.  She  was  by  nature  thor- 

181 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

oughly  introspective  and  experimental,  and  the  instinct 
which  leads  a  child  to  starve  itself  before  a  prospective 
feast  moved  her  to  inflict  upon  herself  this  stretch  of 
three  barren  days  by  way  of  sweetening  the  long  days 
to  follow. 

"It  will  be  good  for  me,"  she  said — "good  for  us 
both,  this  going  without  food  and  drink  and  air  and 
sunshine  for  a  little  time.  It  will  be  for  me  starvation, 
almost  literally,  but  I  shall  be  rather  glad  of  the  oppor- 
tunity to  sit  still  —  and  alone  —  and  think  over  my 
blessings.  I  shall  appreciate  you,  highness,  when  you 
return.  I  shall  appreciate  you  amazingly." 

They  made  quite  a  little  tragedy  of  his  going,  laugh- 
ing at  themselves  shamefacedly  the  while.  Beatrix 
followed  the  trap  to  the  inner  gate  of  the  long,  laurel- 
bordered  lane,  which  led  out  to  the  highway  a  half-mile 
distant,  and  she  wept  a  bit  as  the  trap  disappeared 
down  the  lane.  Then  she  laughed  at  her  tears,  and, 
having  wept  a  little  more,  walked  slowly  back  to  the 
cottage  and  through  it  to  the  gardens  which  she 
loved. 

It  appeared  that  the  late  roses  were  unwell,  and  the 
gardener,  a  surly  old  Scotsman,  was  among  them, 
spraying  them  with  an  evil  liquid  out  of  a  bucket. 
Beatrix  stopped  a  moment  to  watch  him,  and  the  man 
lifted  up  his  voice  in  lament  over  his  perishing  charges, 
which  alone,  of  all  things  in  the  world,  he  loved. 

"Ye  maun  find  me  a  helper,  mem!"  he  said,  despond- 
ently. "I  hae  nae  herrt  for  the  grass-cuttin'  an'  the 
waterin'  an'  a';  an'  yon'  stable  lads  are  no  matter  o* 
use.  Ye  maun  find  me  a  helper  to  tak  the  rough  o' 
the  worrk.  My  rosies  ha'e  need  o'  me  a'  the  while." 

Beatrix  tried  to  make  a  proper  show  of  sympathy 
and  concern,  but,  although  she  also  loved  her  roses,  she 

182 


A    LITTLE    GRAY    TRAMP    ARRIVES 

could  not,  in  just  that  moment,  make  a  tragedy  out  of 
them. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said.  "It  would  be  quite  too  bad 
to  have  them  die,  wouldn't  it?  About  a  helper, 
though,  I  hardly  know  what  to  do.  I  expect  we  shall 
have  to  wait  until  Mr.  Faring  returns — unless,  that  is, 
you  know  of  some  one  you  could  hire.  Do  you?" 

The  old  man  shook  his  white  head. 

"Na,  na!"  he  said,  querulously.  "I  hae  nae  pairt 
wi'  these  grinnin'  laddies  hereaboots.  They  canna  be 
trustit.  Aweel,  I'll  juist  hae  tae  get  on  till  the  mais- 
ter's  hame  agen.  But  they're  bad,  they're  awfu'  bad! 
It  fair  mak's  me  greet  tae  see  'em."  He  bent  over  his 
work  again,  spraying  the  roses  with  liquid  from  a  great 
garden-syringe,  and  Beatrix  passed  on. 

She  had  meant  to  go  to  the  little  pavilion  on  the  hill, 
where  Phryne  looked  over  the  sea,  but  it  was  sunny 
there  in  the  morning,  and,  after  a  moment,  she  turned 
back  and  once  more  went  through  the  house  and 
through  the  front  garden  to  that  long,  laurel-hedged 
lane  where  she  and  her  husband  often  walked  early  in 
the  day. 

It  was  a  shady  lane,  where  the  sun  came  through 
only  in  quivering,  dappled  flecks  of  gold.  Birds  dwelt 
there  in  a  discursive  multitude,  and  squirrels  ran  across 
the  roadway  or,  under  the  high  bank,  sat  up  to  peer 
inquisitively  at  the  chance  intruder.  There  were  rust- 
lings and  squeakings  of  life  from  the  thicket  at  either 
side,  there  was  a  cool,  still  scent  of  earth  and  of  things 
growing  —  the  rich  aroma  of  nature's  fecundity,  the 
summer  smell  which  is  compounded  of  a  thousand 
thousand  exquisite  odors  and  some  not  so  exquisite — 
the  mother  earth  teeming  with  richness,  drowsing  under 
a  July  sun. 

13  183 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

Beatrix  walked  slowly  down  the  lane  over  those 
trembling  flecks  of  gold  which  the  sun  filtered  through 
the  vault  of  leaves,  and  with  her  went  a  Russian  wolf- 
hound which  had  followed  her  from  the  house.  It  was 
a  dog  which  she  had  owned  in  the  old  days  at  Buchanan 
Lodge,  a  very  beautiful  beast,  but,  after  its  kind,  un- 
speakably disdainful  of  all  the  world  and  of  the  thou- 
sand common  weaknesses  of  baser  canine  flesh.  On 
this  morning,  as  always,  it  paced  soberly  beside  its 
mistress,  paying  no  heed  whatever  to  the  fascinating 
sights  and  smells  and  mysteries  of  the  wayside.  A 
small  red  squirrel,  very  intent  upon  some  affair  of 
moment,  sprang  up  almost  from  under  the  dog's  feet, 
and  in  an  agony  of  terror,  dashed  into  the  shelter  of 
the  thicket  to  one  side,  but  the  Borzoi  only  rolled  a 
careless  eye  in  that  direction.  It  was  a  most  superior 
dog. 

A  little  bent  man  in  ragged  garments  came  shuffling 
up  the  lane,  evidently  from  the  highway  beyond.  He 
held  in  one  hand  his  battered  straw  hat — the  remains  of 
a  cast-off  "panama" — and  in  the  other  a  gnarled  stick. 
He  seemed  a  quaint  little  man.  He  had  thin,  grayish 
hair  and  sharp  features,  but  his  step  had  none  of  the 
weary  lag  of  the  professional  tramp's  step.  He  walked, 
albeit  shufflingly,  with  a  certain  odd  spry  ness,  as  if  he 
were  glad  to  be  abroad  on  that  fine  morning.  And  as 
he  walked  he  crooned  some  tuneless  song  over  and  over 
in  a  dry  voice,  turning  his  head  from  side  to  side  like  a 
bird  to  peer  into  the  thicket. 

The  Russian  hound  ran  forward  a  few  steps,  pointing 
like  a  bird-dog,  and  Mrs.  Faring  halted,  meditating  a 
retreat  to  the  house.  But  after  a  moment  of  this  she 
laughed  and  went  on. 

"There's  no  harm  in  that  poor,  little,  bent -over 
184 


A    LITTLE    GRAY    TRAMP    ARRIVES 

thing!"  she  said.  "If  he  should  turn  nasty,  Sergei 
would  bite  him  in  two.  What  an  odd  creature!" 

The  gray -haired  tramp  caught  sight  of  her  just  then, 
and  caught  sight  of  the  dog,  too,  and  he  stopped  and 
half  turned,  as  if  he  meant  to  run  away,  but  Mrs.  Faring 
said: 

"Don't  be  afraid  of  the  dog.     He'll  not  harm  you." 

The  man  grinned  feebly,  and  made  a  funny  little, 
jerky,  shuffling  bow.  He  answered,  and  his  voice  was 
thin,  piping  —  the  sort  of  voice  to  accord  with  that 
quaint  personality. 

"  I — ain't  afraid,  ma'am,"  he  said.  "  Leastways,  not 
much  afraid,  though  speakin'  in  general  I  don't  take 
to  dawgs — nor  yet  dawgs  to  me.  Thankee,  ma'am!" 
Suddenly  he  dropped  into  the  beggar's  whining  sing- 
song: 

"Could  you  spare  a  few  cents  to  get  a  meal  with, 
ma'am.  "I  haven't  had  nothin'  to  eat  for — for  three 
days,  awmost.  I'm  hungry,  somethin'  scandalous!" 

Mrs.  Faring  gave  a  little  cry  of  distressed  pity.  The 
man,  in  spite  of  his  wizened  face  and  lean,  bent  body, 
did  not  look  in  the  least  starved,  and  she  greatly  doubt- 
ed the  truth  of  his  statement ;  but  the  very  suggestion 
that  a  human  being  was  hungry  waked  springs  of  ready 
tenderness  in  her. 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry!"  she  said.  "I'm  sorry!  Come  up 
to  the  house!  I  have  no  money  here,  but  I  will  have 
them  give  you  something  to  eat  and  then  I  will  give 
you  some  money  before  you  go." 

The  man  made  his  awkward,  jerky  little  bow  again. 

"Thankee,  ma'am!"  he  said  again.  He  shuffled  un- 
easily. 

"Could  you  call  the  dawg  off,  ma'am?"  he  said. 
"I  ain't  much  used  to  dawgs."  The  Russian  hound 

185 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

was  sniffing  at  the  stranger's  knees  with  a  most  un- 
common curiosity.  Suddenly  it  began  to  bark  and 
yelp  and  to  leap  about  the  man,  almost  pushing  him 
off  his  feet  with  its  demonstrations  of  joy.  Beatrix 
called  out  to  it  sharply,  but  it  would  not  come  to  her. 
It  continued  to  leap  about  the  gray  little  tramp,  licking 
his  hands  and  barking. 

She  took  a  step  forward. 

"I  don't  —  understand!"  she  said.  "It's  most  ex- 
traordinary. Sergei  never  likes  strangers."  The  man 
looked  up  at  her  with  his  uneasy,  half -frightened  grin. 

"  Could  you  call  him  off,  ma'am  ?"  he  said  again.  "  I 
ain't  much  used  to  dawgs." 

Blackness  came  before  Beatrix  Paring's  eyes,  with 
something  like  a  rushing  wind,  and  passed.  She 
thought  that  she  screamed  aloud,  but  there  was  no 
sound.  She  was  curiously  cold,  icy-cold,  from  head  to 
feet. 

She  put  out  one  hand  a  little  way. 

"Herbert!"  she  said,  in  a  still  voice. 

"Eh,  what?"  said  the  man.  "What?"  It  was  an- 
other man's  voice.  Something  came  into  the  wizened 
face  and  struggled  there — something  like  a  great  effort 
to  remember  a  thing  long  forgotten — but  it  passed, 
and  the  little  bent  tramp  smiled  feebly. 

"Could  you  call  off  the  dawg,  ma'am."  he  said. 
"I  ain't  much  used  to  dawgs." 

A  great  bowlder  stood  beside  the  roadway  half 
embedded  in  the  high  bank,  covered  over  with  run- 
ning vines.  Beatrix  dropped  down  upon  it,  for  her 
knees  were  shaking  under  her,  and  that  blackness  had 
not  quite  passed;  it  hung  in  a  sort  of  circle  before 
her  eyes,  blotting  out  all  which  was  above  and  below 
and  to  either  side.  Through  it,  like  something  seen 

1 86 


,„.  SAT  LOOKING  AT  THK  MAM  .  .  .  SIMMNIMG  S1VIFT.  I>KSPHRATB 

PLANS" 


A    LITTLE    GRAY    TRAMP    ARRIVES 

through  a  hole  in  a  black  cloth  the  bent,  little  gray 
tramp  stood  clear,  with  the  hound  Sergei  licking  his 
uneasy  hands.  Her  mind  was  clear  after  that  first 
stunned  moment,  and  it  worked  with  a  desperate 
swiftness.  Long  afterwards,  when  she  went  back 
over  that  very  terrible  hour,  she  realized  that  her  first 
thought  was  a  passionate  prayer  of  thanksgiving  that 
Harry  Faring  was  away,  that  she  had  been  left  alone 
to  deal  with  this  crisis.  From  that  she  went  in  a 
flash  to  ways  and  means.  Cornered  she  was,  hunted, 
sore  pressed,  but  not  yet  panic-stricken.  At  first: 

"He  must  be  got  away!"  she  said,  in  that  lightning 
flash  of  thought.  "Safely  away.  He  knows  nothing 
— there's  no  danger  from  him.  He  must  be  got 
away."  Then: 

"No;  no!  no!  What  if  he — knows?  What  if  he 
should  come  to  his  senses?"  And  she  sat  looking  at 
the  man,  very  alertly,  fancy  spinning  swift,  desperate 
plans,  reason  rejecting  each  as  it  was  offered,  until, 
after  what  seemed  to  her  a  very  long  time,  and  was, 
probably,  two  or  three  minutes,  she  stopped  out  of 
sheer  exhaustion  and  sat  in  a  sort  of  apathy,  watching 
the  gray  little  man  under  her  brows. 

"What  is — your  name?"  she  asked,  finally. 

The  little  man  waited  to  cough — a  great,  rending, 
tearing  cough  which  shook  all  his  body.  Two  red 
spots  all  at  once  stood  out  in  his  cheeks,  and  the 
woman,  watching,  drew  a  quick  breath. 

"Consumption!"  she  said,  dumbly.  "He's  going  to 
die."  She  had  not  a  trace  of  feeling  over  it.  She 
seemed  to  be  beyond  feeling. 

"John,  ma'am,"  said  the  little  gray  man  when  he- 
could  speak.  "'Gentleman  John'  the  gang  used  "to 
call  me.  I  don't  know  why — 'cept  it  may  be  on  ac- 

187 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

count  o'  the  tales  I  tells  them  as  I  makes  up  out  of 
my  head." 

"Tales?"  she  said,  mechanically. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  the  little  gray  man.  "You  see, 
ma'am,"  he  said,  "the  gang  has  been  good  to  me — 
even  if  they  does  kick  me  out  at  last,  being  suspicious- 
like.  They  picks  me  up  somewheres — I  don't  remem- 
ber where — with  my  head  broke  open — askin'  your 
pardon,  ma'am! — and  me  very  sick,  and  they  nurses 
me  very  careful  and  kind,  and  feeds  me  and  all,  so  I 
tries  to  please  them  by  making  up  tales  out  of  my 
head  to  tell  when  we're  a-sitting  about  of  an  evening. 
Very  rum  tales  they  is.  I  don't  know  how  I  thinks  of 
them,  but  the  gang  likes  them.  They  says  I'm  the 
finest  liar  they  ever  saw,  and  they  just  lies  on  their 
backs  and  yells  when  I  tells  them  about  my  big  house 
and  my  horses  and  carriages  and  all." 

The  woman  went  white. 

"Your — house — carriages?"  she  said,  in  a  whisper. 

The  little  gray  man  gave  an  apologetic  laugh  and 
shuffled  his  feet. 

"It's  only  tales,  ma'am,"  he  said.  "I  gets  them 
out  of  my  head.  I  don't  know  how  they  happens  to 
come  there.  You  see,  I  pretends  to  the  gang  that  I 
was  once  a  gentleman  with  heaps  of  money — hundreds 
and  hundreds  of  dollars,  and  nothing  to  do  but  spend 
it.  And  I  pretends  that  I've  got  a  fine,  big  house  and 
men  to  wait  on  me  and  all.  I  tells  them  about  the 
horses  I've  got  and  what  their  names  is,  and  about  my 
dawgs — big,  handsome  dawgs  with  thin  waists — like — 
just  like  this  dawg,  ma'am,  that's  so  friendly-like.  I 
tells  them  about  the  man  that  hasn't  nothing  to  do 
but  wait  on  me,  and  how  he  fixes  my  bed  for  me — a 
grand,  big,  high  bed  with  a  queer  thing  over  it — I  don't 

188 


A    LITTLE    GRAY    TRAMP   ARRIVES 

know  how  I  happened  to  think  of  that — and  how  he 
puts  out  a  new  clean  shirt  for  me  every  single  day. 
You'd  ought  to  hear  the  gang  yell  when  I  tells  them 
that !  I  tells  them  about  the  little  white  room  with  a 
white  coffin  full  of  water  where  I  takes  a  bath,  and 
about  the  beautiful  table  where  I  has  my  dinner, 
regular,  all  white  with  flowers  on  it.  I  don't  know 
why  there's  flowers  on  it,  but  it  comes  into  my  head 
that  way.  And  I  tells  them  heaps  of  things  until 
they  says  that  they  wouldn't  ha'  missed  picking  me 
up  and  tying  me  together,  like  they  done,  for  ten  dol- 
lars or  even  twenty.  They  says  they'd  rather  hear 
me  tell  tales  than  eat."  The  little  man  again  gave 
his  apologetic,  deprecatory  laugh,  and,  reaching  out  a 
timid  hand,  patted  the  Russian  dog's  head. 

"O'  course,  it's  all  very  foolish,  ma'am,"  he  said; 
"just  tales  as  I  makes  up  to  please  the  gang.  You 
see,  they  gets  to  running  in  my  head  sometimes  won- 
derful clear,  till  I'd  swear  they  was  awmost  true  if 
they  wasn't  so  damn  foolish.  All  sorts  of  things  goes 
round  and  round  in  my  head  like — like  bad  dreams, 
sort  of.  That's  from  being  sick,  most  likely.  They 
was  clearer  in  the  beginning.  I  can't  think  of  such 
good  ones  nowadays." 

"Oh,  Herbert!  Herbert!"  said  the  woman,  som- 
brely. 

The  little  tramp  looked  up,  always  with  his  ashamed, 
deprecatory  smile,  as  one  who  would  apologize  for 
cumbering  the  earth. 

"John,  ma'am!"  said  he.  "'Gentleman  John,'  the 
gang  calls  me.  Begging  your  pardon,  ma'am!" 

"Not  Herbert  Buchanan?"  said  she.  "Not  Her- 
bert Buchanan  ?"  She  thought  that  that  momentary 
trouble,  that  weak  bewilderment,  once  more  clouded 

189 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

the  tramp's  eyes,  but  if  so  it  was  gone  in  a  flash.  He 
shook  his  head  patiently. 

"No,  ma'am,"  he  said.  "I  don't  know  him.  Of 
course  I  wouldn't,  ma'am,  me  being  nothing  but  a 
hobo,  and  not  in  good  standing  even  then.  I  wouldn't 
know  no  gentlemen,  ma'am,  not  such  as  a  beautiful 
lady  like  you  would  know." 

"Wait!"  said  she.  "Listen!"  Something  within 
her  which  would  not  be  denied,  drove  her  in  the  face 
of  terror  and  peril  to  press  the  man,  to  awaken,  if  it 
could  be  awakened,  that  feeble  inner  spark  of  intelli- 
gence—  alt  that  was  left  of  Herbert  Buchanan,  of 
Buchanan  Lodge.  She  rose  to  her  feet,  facing  him. 

"Don't  you  remember,  Herbert?"  she  said,  slowly. 
"Don't  you  remember?  Try!  Oh,  try!  Think!  You 
were  very  tired  of  everything.  Your  neves  were  bad, 
and  you  felt  that  you  could  not  bear  the  life  you  were 
living  any  longer.  You  were  tired  of  me;  you  almost 
hated  me — Beatrix — your  wife — Beatrix!" 

The  little  bent  tramp  looked  up  from  his  shuffling 
feet,  and  his  patient  smile  faded.  At  that  name, 
"Beatrix,"  his  face  writhed  suddenly,  and  something 
like  fear  came  into  his  eyes.  He  repeated  the  name 
aloud,  in  a  halting  tone. 

"You  lost  your  temper  at  dinner,  Herbert,"  she 
said,  swiftly.  "Don't  you  remember  who  were  dining 
with  us — the  Eversleys  and  Stambolof,  and  Aunt  Ara- 
bella Crowley  and  Alianor  Trevor,  and  —  and  one 
other?"  She  could  not  speak  Harry  Paring's  name 
just  then. 

"And  after  dinner,"  she  said,  watching  his  drawn 
face — "  after  dinner  you  went  to  your  own  study,  alone, 
and  sat  there  for  a  long  time  brooding.  Don't  you  re- 
member the  study,  that  big  room  with  the  Chinese 

190 


A   LITTLE    GRAY   TRAMP    ARRIVES 

and  Japanese  bronzes  and  the  carved  panels  and  the 
Buddhas  ?  You  sat  there  for  hours  brooding  on  how 
you  hated  everybody  and  everything,  and  then — " 
She  paused,  breathing  very  fast,  and  the  little  gray 
tramp  licked  his  lips,  staring  at  her. 

"And  then,"  he  said,  in  an  oddly  mechanical  tone — 
"then  he  came  in  by  the  window." 

"He?"  cried  Beatrix  Faring.  "Who,  Herbert? 
Who  came  in?"  And  she  caught  her  hands  up  over 
her  mouth,  for  she  saw  that  she  had  startled  the  man 
away  from  that  dim,  faint  thread  of  recollection. 

He  gave  a  little  shiver,  and  his  face  changed,  the 
old,  feeble,  deprecatory  smile  returned  to  him — the 
smile  of  the  wanderer  who  has  been  kicked  and  out- 
thrust  and  cursed  at. 

"What  was  I  a -saying,  ma'am?"  he  asked.  "I 
—  forget -like  sometimes.  Things  comes  a -spinning 
through  my  head  so  very  remarkable  that  I  don't 
have  time  to  catch  hold  of  them  proper."  He  looked 
down  to  his  feet  and  about  him,  and  stirred  uneasily. 
He  had  a  frightened  air. 

"I  think  I'll  just  be  a-going  on,  ma'am,"  he  said, 
after  a  moment.  "I  only  come  in  to  ask  for  a  few 
cents  to  buy  a  meal  with.  I  haven't  had  nothing  to 
eat  for  four  days — I  mean  five."  The  woman  gave  a 
low  cry,  and  he  looked  up  at  her  shamefacedly. 

"No,  ma'am,"  he  confessed,  "that  ain't  true. 
That's  a  lie.  They's  a  pleasant  old  dame  down  the 
road  a  mile  or  two  as  gives  me  some  breakfast  an 
hour  ago.  She  gives  me  a  piece  of  cold  beefsteak  and 
some  bread  and  a  half  of  a  pie.  I  ain't  hungry, 
ma'am;  really  I  ain't.  I'll  just  be  a-going  on." 

But  she  cried  out  at  him.  "  No!  no!"  she  said, swiftly. 
"  No,  you — mustn't  go.  I — want  you  to  stay,  Herbert." 

191 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

"John,  ma'am,"  said  the  little  tramp.  " '  Gentleman 
John'  the  gang  calls  me.  I  don't  know  the  gentleman 
you're  a-talking  about.  I  wouldn't,  you  see,  me  being 
nothing  but  a  hobo." 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  said.  "Yes,  I'll  try  to  call  you — 
John.  But  you  must  stay.  I — want  to  hear  more 
about  your  friends — this — 'gang.'  You  said  'gang,' 
did  you  not?  I  won't  ask  you  again  about  Herb — 
about  the  other  man.  I — promise.  And  I'll  give  you 
money,  heaps  of  money.  Only  stay  a  little  while. 
Wouldn't  you  like  to  sit  down?"  She  pointed  to  the 
twin  of  the  bowlder  upon  which  she  had  been  sitting. 
It  jutted  from  the  bank  a  yard  or  so  away. 

"Oh,  I  ain't  fit,  ma'am,"  he  protested.  "I  ain't  fit 
to  sit  down  with  a  beautiful  lady  like  you;  I'm  only  a 
hobo."  But  she  insisted,  and  he  perched  uneasily 
upon  the  edge  of  the  rock,  turning  his  battered  Panama 
hat  between  his  hands.  The  Russian  dog  sat  at  his  feet 
and  laid  its  head  out  upon  one  of  the  little  man's  knees. 

"Where,"  said  Beatrix  Faring,  "was  this — gang,  of 
which  you  speak,  living?  Near  here?" 

"Oh  no,  ma'am,"  said  he.  "It  was  away  out  West 
— not  far  from  Chi.  —  that's  Chicago,  ma'am.  They 
had  a  sort  of  camp,  but  I  don't  think  they'd  lived 
there  always.  They  ain't  there  now,  neither.  They're 
scattered  about  on  various  jobs,  though  none  of  them 
ain't  proper  first-class  guns.  They're  only  second- 
story-men  and  moll -buzzers,  and  sometimes  they 
plays  gay-cats  for  yegg-men  in  the  little  towns.  They 
tries  hard  to  learn  me  the  game,  but  it  isn't  no  good. 
No  one  couldn't  make  a  gun  out  of  me.  I  ain't  even 
fit  for  moll-buzzing.  I  can't  do  nothing  but  tell  tales. 
They  likes  the  tales,  the  gang  does,  but  after  a  bit 
they  gets  suspicious  and  chucks  me  out." 

192 


A    LITTLE    GRAY    TRAMP    ARRIVES 

"  Suspicious  ?"  said  the  woman.  "  How  suspicious  ?" 
"Well,  you  see,  ma'am,"  he  said,  "they  says,  the 
gang  does,  that  I  knows  altogether  too  much  about 
the  tales  I  tells — how  a  gentleman  lives  and  all  that. 
They  thinks  maybe  I'm  one  of  these  newspaper  re- 
porters that  goes  out  and  lives  with  hobos  and  then 
writes  'em  up  in  the  prints,  just  like  life,  with  the 
names  and  all.  One  of  the  gang  finds  a  book  some- 
wheres  that  a  man  has  wrote  about  hobos  and  yegg- 
men  and  all,  and  they  begins  to  be  leery  of  me  and  to 
sit  about  talking  me  over.  I  tries  to  tell  them  that 
the  things  is  just  tales  that  comes  into  my  head,  and 
that  I  wasn't  never  any  gentleman  like  I  pretends, 
but  they  won't  believe  me.  Then  something  queer 
happens  to  make  them  sure,  and  it's  all  up  with  me. 
A  dago  man  comes  along  one  day  with  a  dancing  bear. 
No,  he  isn't  a  proper  dago  man  neither,  but  a  Frenchy. 
He  wants  to  ask  the  way  to  the  next  town  west  from 
Chi.,  but  he  can't  speak  nothing  but  his  own  silly  talk. 
I  don't  know  how  it  happens,  but  all  at  once  I  finds 
myself  a-chatting  away  with  him  in  his  Frenchy 
lingo,  fast  as  you  please.  I  can't  explain  that  to  the 
gang — it  just  comes  to  me  like  the  tales — and  they 
turns  very  nasty  over  it  all,  and  some  of  them  wants 
to  knife  me  because  I  knows  too  much  about  them  to 
be  let  away  free,  but  Kansas  —  that's  my  pal  —  says 
he'll  drop  anybody  as  puts  a  finger  on  me,  and  so, 
finally,  him  and  me  comes  away  and  starts  East." 
The  little  man's  smile  became  radiant. 

"You'd  ought  to  know  Kansas,  ma'am,"  he  said. 
"  He's  the  finest  pal  a  man  ever  has  since  the  world 
began.  He  ain't  a  big  gun,  because  he  starts  too  late 
in  life  —  him  having  been  a  gentleman  once.  He's 
only  a  second-story-man,  but  if  he  hadn't  wasted  all 

193 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

that  time  while  he  was  young  he  might  be  cracking 
cribs  with  Shenandoah  Red  and  Cal.  Gray  and  Scran- 
ton  Shorty  to-day.  He's  very  bitter  about  wasting 
all  those  years  when  he  was  young.  It  sets  him  back 
so.  I  only  wisht  I  could  do  something  for  Kansas, 
he's  so  good  to  me,  but  I'm  no  kind  of  use.  I  can't 
learn  nothing.  It's  all  on  account  of  the  queer  things 
that  goes  wheeling  and  spinning  through  my  head 
every  now  and  then  most  wonderful." 

The  little  man  stopped  suddenly. 

"But  this  ain't  very  interesting  to  you,  ma'am,"  he 
said.  "I'm  a-running  on  scandalous.  A  beautiful 
lady  like  you  wouldn't  care  nothing  about  hobos." 

"Oh  yes,  yes,"  she  said,  hurriedly.  "Yes,  I  want 
very  much  to  hear.  I'm — much  interested.  Tell  me!" 
She  looked  across  at  him  with  anxious  eyes. 

"How  long  were  you  living  with  these — these  men 
— this  'gang'?  When  was  it  that  they  found  you,  as 
you  said,  with  your  —  head  injured,  and  nursed  you 
back  to  health  ?" 

"Oh,  it  was  near  two  years  ago,  ma'am,"  said  the 
little  tramp.  "Only  that  wasn't  out  West;  it  was 
somewheres  East.  I  don't  know  just  where,  me  be- 
ing very  sick  at  the  time.  Kansas,  he'd  know.  It 
was  Kansas  found  me,  with  my  head  broke  open.  He 
told  me  so  once,  but  he  don't  like  to  talk  about  it.  I 
don't  know  why." 

"Two  years!"  said  the  woman,  in  a  whisper.  "Yes, 
of  course,  two  years.  And  this  Kansas,  this  friend — 
pal — of  yours.  Where  is  he  now?  Why  is  he  not 
with  you?" 

The  little  man  shuffled  his  feet  and  looked  down  at 
them.  "Kansas,  he's  busy  just  now,  ma'am,"  he 
said.  "He's  on  a  little  job  a  few  miles  away.  He 

194 


A   LITTLE    GRAY   TRAMP   ARRIVES 

didn't  want  me  to  help,  because  I  ain't  no  manner  of 
good.  I  always  spoils  everything.  You  can't  train 
me,  ma'am.  Not  even  you  couldn't.  I  always  gives 
the  whole  game  away  and  spoils  everything.  I'm 
a-going  to  meet  him  at  a  place  he  told  me  about — 
Kansas  knows  all  this  country  here  like  a  book — when 
his  job's  done.  Then  if  he  makes  a  good  get-away 
we'll  be  in  clover,  Kansas  and  me  will,  with  lots  of 
money,  and  we  can  take  the  Road  without  having  to 
beg  for  a  long  time.  We're  very  fond  of  the  Road. 
There  isn't  nothing  finer.  I  don't  know,"  said  the 
little  man,  with  sparkling  eyes,  "I  don't  know  noth- 
ing finer  anywheres  than  just  shuffling  along  the  Road 
of  a  morning,  before  the  sun  is  too  hot,  with  nothing 
to  think  about  or  worry  about  except  to  wonder  what 
amazing  odd  things  will  turn  up  next.  It's  so  various 
and  sundry,  the  Road  is.  There's  such  remarkable 
different  things  may  be  happening  just  round  the 
bend,  and  usually  is.  It  gets  into  your  blood  surpris- 
ing. It  was  just  like  that  this  morning.  I'd  waked 
up  nice  and  comfortable,  with  the  little  ants  a-crawling 
over  me,  and  the  birds  a-twittering  cheerful  over  my 
head,  and  the  sun  in  my  eyes,  and  when  I'd  started 
off,  that  pleasant  old  dame  as  I  tells  you  of,  ma'am, 
she  gives  me  the  cold  beefsteak  and  bread  and  hunk 
of  pie,  so  that  I'm  proper  fixed  inside,  and  I  comes 
a-trotting  down  the  Road  so  spry  you'd  think  I  was  a 
kid. 

"I'd  been  pretending  that  I  had  heaps  of  money — 
a  hundred  dollars  —  that's  a  foolish  sum,  but  while 
you're  a-pretending  you  might  as  well  make  it  big — 
and  I  was  settling  what  I'd  do  with  it  all — five  dollars 
here,  and  a  dollar  there,  and  two  dollars  and  a  quarter 
somewheres  else — which  is  a  very  pleasant  way  of 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

passing  your  time — when  I  begins  to  see  things  that 
worries  me.  There's  a  white  farm-house  with  green 
shutters  and  a  queer,  square  thing  on  top.  I  says  to 
myself:  'Here,  I  know  that  farm-house.  I've  saw  that 
before.  And,'  I  says,  'if  I  remember  correct,  there's 
a  well  with  a  long  well-sweep  just  round  the  next 
bend.  Sure  enough,  round  the  next  bend  there's  that 
well  with  the  well-sweep,  and  at  that,  the  things  begins 
to  go  a-wheeling  and  spinning  through  my  head  like 
they  does  sometimes — so  fast  that  I  can't  catch  hold 
of  them — and  I  turns  into  this  lane  here  a-shaking  like 
a  scared  horse.  It's  very  odd,  ma'am." 

"Herbert!  Herbert!"  said  the  woman,  staring 
sombrely. 

"John,  ma'am,"  said  Herbert  Buchanan.  '"Gen- 
tleman John' — though  of  course  I  ain't  a  proper  gen- 
tleman, me  being  only  a  hobo.  I  can't  think  how  it 
is  about  that  farm-house  and  the  well  with  the  well- 
sweep.  Maybe  I've  saw  something  like  them  some- 
wheres  before.  I  don't  know.  It's  very  queer,  but  I 
has  so  many  queer  things  happen  to  me  that  a  few 
more  doesn't  matter — only  I  wish  my  head  wouldn't 
go  a-buzzing  and  a-wheeling  like  it  does.  I  don't 
like  it." 

After  that  there  fell  between  the  two  a  short  silence. 
The  little  gray  man,  whose  garrulity  seemed  for  a 
while  to  depart  from  him,  stroked  the  Russian  dog's 
head  and  chirped  to  the  animal  gayly,  while  Beatrix 
Faring,  still  and  inert  in  her  place,  watched  him  under 
her  brows. 

She  had  fallen  into  a  sort  of  apathy.  Neither  terror 
nor  dread  clamored  within  her.  Her  mind  no  longer 
flashed  with  desperate  swiftness  between  hope  and 
despair — from  one  futile  loop-hole  to  another.  It  was 

196 


A    LITTLE    GRAY    TRAMP    ARRIVES 

almost  as  still  as  her  torpor-stricken  body.  Vaguely 
she  realized  that  this  thing  which  had  befallen  was  a 
thing  long  expected,  that  unconsciously  she  had  been 
waiting  for  it  to  end  that  glory  on  the  all-too-accessible 
mountain-peak.  Vaguely  she  realized  that  it  was  the 
price  to  be  paid. 

She  knew  that  the  full  agony  was  still  to  come,  that 
in  this  first  hour  flesh  and  spirit  were  dulled  almost 
past  sensation,  and  at  the  thought  she  gave  an  odd 
little  shiver  of  pity  for  the  woman  who  was,  later  on, 
to  suffer  tortures.  For  the  present  the  woman  dwelt 
in  a  fog,  a  deadening  vapor. 

She  looked  at  the  bent,  gray  little  man  before  her, 
and  dully  wondered  what  terrible  adventures  and 
trials  he  could  have  endured  to  alter  him  from  the 
Herbert  Buchanan  of  her  memory  to  this  shambling 
wreck  whose  past  came  to  him  in  the  guise  of  foolish 
fancies.  The  thing  seemed  to  her  so  preposterously 
unreal,  so  madly  impossible,  that  once  she  laughed 
aloud,  and  the  man  looked  up  from  his  play  with  the 
Russian  hound  and  smiled  his  apologetic,  shamefaced 
little  smile  in  response. 

She  watched  the  wizened  face,  feature  by  feature, 
with  a  bitter  deliberation.  Feature  by  feature  it  was 
almost  as  unlike  the  face  of  Herbert  Buchanan  as  a 
face  could  be,  and  yet  at  the  first  full  look  she  had 
known. 

Would  others  know?  she  demanded  of  herself,  and 
presently  shook  her  head.  It  was  unthinkable.  It 
had  been  something  beyond  the  physical  which  she 
had  recognized.  Herbert  Buchanan's  soul  had  some- 
how breathed  from  this  shrunken  body  into  her  soul, 
and  she  had  known  it.  Surely  no  one  but  Buchanan's 
wife  would  know. 

197 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

That  set  her  again  to  asking  what  was  to  become 
of  the  man,  and,  to  some  degree,  wakened  her  mind 
to  activity.  One  thing,  she  said,  was  certain.  He 
must  be  kept  in  sight.  He  must  not  be  allowed  to 
go  away.  What  was  to  be  done  later  she  did  not 
know  and  she  dared  not  think,  but  the  man  must  be 
guarded.  Who  could  say  when  that  feeble  spark  of 
confused  recollection  might  chance  to  burst  into  flame 
and  the  creature's  past  come  again  to  him  unclouded  ? 
But  how  to  keep  him  near!  One  cannot  imprison  a 
free  man.  One  may  not  shut  him  up  in  an  out-house 
and  set  a  guard  over  him.  She  sought,  groping,  for 
ways  and  means,  and  a  thought  came  to  her.  A 
single  day  gained  meant  time  for  reflection  for  the 
perfecting  of  a  plan. 

"Do  you,"  she  asked,  quickly,  "like  flowers? 
Would  you  care  to  help  me  with  my  garden  for  a  day 
or  two — only  a  day  or  two  ?  I  need  a  man  to  help 
me."  The  tramp  looked  up  in  mild  astonishment,  but 
she  hurried  on. 

"It  wouldn't  keep  you  long  from  your — from  your 
other  occupations,"  she  said.  "Only  a  very  little 
while,  and  you  would  have  plenty  to  eat  and  a — a 
comfortable  bed,  and  when  you — go  away,  I  will  give 
you — ten  dollars — twenty,  if  you  like." 

The  little  man  fumbled  at  the  Russian  hound's  ears, 
and  the  always-ready,  deprecating  laugh  broke  from 
him. 

"Why — why,  yes,  ma'am,"  he  said.  "Yes,  I  likes 
flowers.  They're  so  pretty  and  gaylike,  but  I — ain't 
much  good,  ma'am.  I  haven't  never  worked  regular. 
I  don't  know."  His  eyes  turned  down  the  shaded 
lane  towards  the  distant  highway. 

"And  I — I  expect  I'd  miss  the  Road,  ma'am,"  he 
198 


A    LITTLE    GRAY    TRAMP    ARRIVES 

said,  a  bit  wistfully.  "It  gets  into  your  blood  sur- 
prising, the  Road  does.  There's  such  various  and 
sundry  things  might  turn  up  just  round  the  next  bend 
— and  generally  does.  I'd  miss  the  Road." 

"Only  for  a  day  or  two,"  she  urged. 

"You  see,  ma'am,"  said  the  little  gray  man,  "I'm 
nothing  but  a  hobo,  and  I'm  very  fond  of  the  Road. 
Kansas,  he  has  a  song  about  it.  He  says  he  didn't 
make  it  up  himself,  but  I  expect  he  did,  Kansas  being 
a  gentleman  once  and  very  educated.  The  song  goes: 

"  'For  to  admire  and  for  to  see, 

For  to  be'old  this  world  so  wide—- 
It never  done  no  good  to  me, 
But  I  can't  drop  it  if  I  tried  I' 

There's  more  to  the  song,  but  I've  forgot.  I  ain't  no 
good  at  remembering.  You  see,  ma'am,  it's  like  that. 
I'd  be  wanting  to  get  out  on  the  Road  again." 

"Only  for  a  day  or  two,"  she  urged  again,  and  the 
little  man  rose  with  a  sigh. 

"  I'd  like  the  ten  dollars,"  he  said.  "  I  mean  twenty," 
and  stood  hesitating  and  shuffling  his  feet. 

Beatrix  rose  quickly  and  led  the  way  along  the  lane 
towards  the  inner  gate,  and  the  man  followed  her  with 
lagging  feet.  The  Russian  hound  marched  solemnly 
at  his  heels.  As  they  reached  the  house  and  skirted 
one  wing  of  it  to  enter  the  gardens,  she  watched  his 
face,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  recognition  or  of  that 
old  bewilderment.  He  seemed  merely  uneasy  and 
half  inclined  to  flight,  a  little  frightened. 

To  the  old  Scots  gardener  she  said  that  this  man 
had  been  sent  to  her  by  a  friend,  with  a  recommenda- 
tion ;  that  he  wished  work,  and  that  she  would  like  to 
have  him  made  busy  among  the  flowers. 

199 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

"I  will  have  that  little  hut  down  below  the  green- 
houses prepared  for  him,"  she  said.  "And — do  not  be 
hard  with  him  at  first.  He  is  old  and — and  not  too 
strong.  Do  not  overburden  him." 

The  Scotsman  looked  upon  the  new-comer  with  ill- 
concealed  disdain. 

"I  doot  if  he's  up  to  much  for  wark,  mem,"  he 
grumbled.  "But  I'll  set  him  at  the  watterin'  and 
such.  He'll  be  better  than  naething  belike." 

Apart  she  said:  "Watch  him.  Do  not  let  him 
wander  away.  His  head  is  not — not  quite  right.  In 
a  day  or  two  I  shall  make  other  arrangements.  Un- 
derstand. For  the  present  he  is  to  be  carefully 
guarded." 

Then,  since  she  felt  that  endurance  was  almost  at 
an  end,  she  went  into  the  house,  and,  with  slow  steps, 
up  the  stairs  to  her  own  chamber.  There  in  the  cool, 
darkened  room  she  dropped  upon  her  knees  beside  the 
bed  and  laid  her  face  upon  her  bent  arms.  Sobs  be- 
gan to  shake  her  very  bitterly. 

"Oh,  God!"  she  cried,  in  her  agony.  "God,  if  You 
will  hear  me  still,  if  You're  not  turned  from  me  quite, 
help  me  now!  I  have  done  a  very  terrible  sin — for 
love's  sake — and  I  deserve  punishment,  but  do  not 
punish  me  now!  Afterwards,  when  I'm  dead,  do 
what  You  like  with  me.  I  sha'n't  beg  off.  I  sha'n't 
shrink.  But  do  not  punish  me  now.  Help  me  to 
keep  this  dreadful  thing  from  Harry  Faring.  Help 
me  to  make  his  life  happy.  Help  me  to  hide  from 
him,  somehow,  what  must  be  hidden.  Help  me  to  lie 
and  pretend  and  make  believe  so  long  as  Harry  lives. 
Then  you  may  torture  me  forever  if  You  want  to. 
Show  me  a  way  to  prevent  this  horror  from  reaching 
him.  That's  all  I  want.  I  want  his  life  to  be  beauti- 

200 


A    LITTLE    GRAY    TRAMP    ARRIVES 

ful.  Oh,  God,  if  there's  any  kindness  or  goodness  or 
mercy  in  You,  You'll  do  this  thing  for  me — I  mean 
for  Harry.  Harry  has  been  blameless.  Do  not  let 
my  sin  cloud  his  life.  Show  me  a  way.  Show  me  a 
way." 


II 

THE  ROOM  OF  THE  OLD  GODS  AGAIN 

SHE  saw  no  more  of  Buchanan  that  day,  for  she 
remained  in-doors,  locked  in  her  own  chamber,  all 
the  afternoon  and  evening,  taking  no  food,  repulsing 
the  anxious,  kindly  maid  who  came  from  hour  to 
hour  to  knock  at  the  door. 

And  the  God  to  whom  she  prayed  so  desperately 
held  aloof  —  would  send  her  no  sign,  show  her  no 
way. 

"He'll  have  none  of  me,"  she  said  to  herself  at 
nightfall.  "He's  done  with  me.  He  will  not  hear." 
Then  she  shut  her  teeth  and  prayed  again,  almost 
with  threats. 

"You've  got  to  help!"  she  said,  fiercely.  "You've 
got  to  let  me  save  Harry  Faring.  If  You  don't  I  shall 
know  that  all  the  talk  about  'mercy'  and  'forgive- 
ness' and  'long  suffering'  is  lies,  lies,  lies!  Harry 
Faring  has  done  nothing  to  You.  You  sha'n't  punish 
him  for  what  I've  done!" 

At  some  late  hour  of  the  night  she  fell  into  an  un- 
easy sleep,  crouching  dressed  beside  a  window,  and, 
after  evil  dreams,  wakened  in  the  gray  of  the  morn- 
ing, white,  hollow-eyed,  unrefreshed. 

And  God  still  held  aloof. 

With  her  breakfast  word  came  from  the  old  Scots 
gardener  that  he  wished  to  speak  to  her.  She  had 

202 


ROOM  OF  THE  OLD  GODS  AGAIN 

him  brought  in,  and  the  man's  sour  face  was  crimson 
with  wrath. 

"Ye  maun  rid  me  o'  yon  dodderin'  auld  eejit, 
mem!"  he  burst  forth.  "I  canna'  thole  him  anither 
day.  The  Lorrd  may  ha'  made  the  puir  loon  witless, 
an'  for  that  I  hae  peety,  but  the  Lorrd  or  summat 
else  has  made  him  maleecious  as  well.  He's  juist 
past  bearin'.  I  canna'  hae  'm  amang  my  posies. 
Ye'll  hae  tae  cast  him  oot  the  gate." 

"I  will  come  out  presently,"  she  said.  "Do  noth- 
ing until  I  come.  Only  we  must  not  be  hard  upon 
this  poor  man.  He  is  not  himself."  And  she  gave  a 
little,  bitter,  wry  smile  at  the  phrase.  He  was  not 
himself  indeed. 

When  she  went  into  the  garden  later  neither  the 
old  Scotsman  nor  the  wreck  of  Herbert  Buchanan  was 
in  sight.  She  walked  down  past  the  roses  and  past 
the  still  pool  into  the  walled  and  hedged  enclosure 
where  old-fashioned  flowers  grew  in  an  orderly  tangle. 
Here  she  came  upon  a  great  watering-pot  set  heed- 
lessly down,  or  in  malice,  upon  a  bed  of  spice-pinks. 
The  odorous  little  blossoms  were  crushed  flat  under  its 
heavy  bulk.  She  gave  a  cry  of  angry  protest,  and 
dragged  the  thing  out  into  the  gravel-path. 

The  Russian  hound  came  whining  and  barking  joy- 
fully to  meet  her.  The  beast  was  as  evidently  hurt 
in  feelings,  if  not  in  body,  as  a  human  being  could 
have  been.  Every  attitude  bespoke  indignation. 
Then  on  the  farther  height,  the  hillock  where  Phryne 
looked  over  garden  and  sea,  some  one  moved,  and 
Beatrix,  the  dog  at  her  heels,  went  up  the  mounting 
path  to  the  little  open  pavilion. 

Herbert  Buchanan  sat  there  staring  out  across  the 
rugged  moor  to  where  blue  waves  curled  crisp  under 

203 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

the  morning  sun.  He  rose  politely  when  he  saw  her 
approaching,  and  pulled  off  his  battered  Panama  hat. 
The  old  smile  beamed  ever  from  him,  deprecating, 
apologetic,  asking  pardon,  as  it  were,  for  his  cumber- 
ing of  the  earth.  Surely  there  could  be  no  malice  in 
the  man,  nothing  but  a  foolish,  witless  good- nature. 

"The  gardener,"  said  Beatrix,  "seems  a  bit  disturb- 
ed. Did  you  not  get  on  well  together?  Of  course,  I 
understand  that  the  work  is  new  to  you." 

"Why,  yes,  ma'am,"  said  Herbert  Buchanan. 
"Yes,  ma'am,  we  gets  on  fine.  He  seems  to  be  a  sort 
of  a  cross  old  man.  He  doesn't  like  it  when  I  has  to 
step  on  the  flowers  sometimes;  but  we  gets  on  fine. 
Oh  yes,  ma'am.  And  that  little  house  that  you  gives 
me,  all  by  myself,  that's  fine,  too.  I  don't  know 
when  I  sleeps  better  than  I  sleeps  there  last  night.  I 
doesn't  cough  so  much  when  I  sleeps  in  a  proper  bed. 
It  ain't  so  damp-like." 

The  Russian  hound  thrust  forward  a  suspicious 
nose,  and  the  man  put  out  one  of  his  hands  towards 
it,  but  the  dog  at  once  drew  back  growling,  and  re- 
treated behind  its  mistress's  skirts. 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter?"  she  cried.  "Why 
should  Sergei  act  like  that  ?  Yesterday  he  seemed  so 
friendly  towards  you."  The  dog  continued  to  growl, 
and  she  soothed  it  with  one  hand  and  spoke  to  it. 

"Have  you  been  hurting  the  dog?"  she  demanded, 
sharply.  "Have  you  done  anything  to  him?" 

Buchanan  broke  into  a  little,  tittering  laugh.  "I 
haven't  done  nothing  to  him,  ma'am,"  he  said.  "I 
only  kicks  at  him  a  bit  to  see  him  growl.  He  growls 
so  ridiculous.  And  I  puts  a  bit  of  pepper  on  his  nose 
when  I  has  my  breakfast  this  morning  to  see  if  he'll 
sneeze.  I  haven't  hurt  him  none." 

204 


ROOM  OF  THE  OLD  GODS  AGAIN 

Beatrix  shut  her  lips  very  tight.  Was  this  the  only 
thing  left  of  that  Herbert  Buchanan  who  used  to  be — 
this  instinct  to  harm  things,  to  torture,  to  inflict  hurt  ? 

She  sat  down  upon  one  of  the  curving  benches 
which  were  there  and  fell  into  a  brooding  silence. 

What  to  do  ? 

"  God  has  turned  from  me,"  she  said.  "  He  has  done 
with  me.  He  will  not  help.  I  must  work  alone. 
What  shall  I  do?"  Blindly  she  clung  to  her  early  de- 
cision. The  man  must  be  kept  under  her  eye.  He 
must  not  be  lost.  What  was  to  be  done  further  she 
did  not  know.  No  plan  offered  itself,  and  her  mind 
was  an  aching  darkness.  She  had  thought  once  of  an 
institution,  an  asylum  where  Buchanan  might  be 
cared  for  and  guarded,  but  there  was  danger  in  that — 
the  previous  examination  by  keen  medical  men,  pos- 
sible discovery  and  the  consequent  ruin  of  all  things. 
She  abandoned  that  scheme.  It  was  not  safe.  And 
yet  no  other  presented  itself. 

Meanwhile  something  within  her,  morbid,  unsatis- 
fied, exigent  in  the  face  of  peril,  stirred  her  always  to 
delving  into  that  wrecked  and  shattered  mind.  How 
much  might  he  be  forced  into  remembering?  What 
were  the  possibilities  of  recollection  coming  again 
to  him,  full,  unimpaired?  It  was  the  same  instinct 
which  drags  a  murderer  back  to  the  scene  of  his  crime 
— dares  him  to  court  suspicion  and  possible  discovery. 
She  turned  her  slow  gaze  to  the  man  beside  her,  and 
he  looked  back,  blinking  amiably,  the  foolish  smile 
spreading  across  his  wizened  face. 

"I  think  I  shall  walk  across  the  hills,"  she  said,  "to 
a  house  just  out  of  sight  yonder — a  house  in  which 
I  used  to  live.  It  is  not  far — two  miles,  possibly. 
Would  you  care  to  come  with  me?" 

205 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

"Why,  yes,  ma'am,"  said  Herbert  Buchanan. 
"Yes,  ma'am,  I'd  like  to  do  that.  I  don't  like  being 
still  in  one  place  for  very  long.  It's  foolish.  There's 
so  many  places  to  go  to,  and  all  different.  Yes, 
ma'am,  I'd  like  very  much  for  to  go." 

"Come,  then,"  she  said.     "We  will  go  at  once." 

They  went  back  down  the  little  hill  and  through  the 
gardens,  for  Beatrix  had  to  stop  in  at  the  house  to  get 
a  hat.  At  the  garden  porch  she  came  upon  the 
doctor  from  the  neighboring  village,  a  bustling, 
cheery  man,  small  and  round  and  pink  cheeked.  He 
had  called  to  dress  an  injured  arm  for  one  of  the 
maids.  He  paused  a  moment  to  greet  Mrs.  Faring 
and  say  something  polite  about  her  garden.  Then  he 
hurried  out  to  his  waiting  dog-cart. 

Beatrix  let  him  go  a  few  yards  and  called  him  back. 

"Oh,  just  a  moment,  Dr.  Cripps,"  she  said. 

The  man  turned  back  with  alacrity,  pleased  to  be 
spoken  to,  for  he  stood  much  in  awe  of  Mrs.  Faring. 
Privately  he  considered  her  the  most  beautiful  woman 
in  existence,  and,  in  his  humble,  harmless  fashion,  wor- 
shipped her  as  one  might  worship  a  lovely  and  very 
regal  queen — from  a  great  distance. 

"Anything  further  that  I  can  —  that  I  can  do, 
madam?"  he  said,  going  a  little  pinker  and  gazing 
up  at  her  from  the  path  below.  It  was  not  what  he 
had  meant  to  say.  He  was  always  thinking  after- 
wards of  well-turned  phrases  which  he  might  have 
used  to  her — phrases  fit  for  her  splendor,  but  face  to 
face  with  her  he  was  ever  a  stammering  imbecile. 

"You — you  are  perhaps  a  little  pulled  down  by  the 
heat?"  he  ventured  when  she  did  not  at  once  go  on, 
but  only  stood  frowning  out  over  his  head.  "Not 
quite  yourself,  perhaps?" 

206 


ROOM  OF  THE  OLD  GODS  AGAIN 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Faring,  "I  am  quite  fit,  thank  you. 
It  is  about  some  one  else  that  I  wished  to  ask  you. 
A  friend  has  sent  a  man  to  me  asking  me  to  give  him 
work.  I  am  troubled  about  him  because  he  has  a 
bad  cough — very  bad,  I  think.  Perhaps  he  ought  to 
have  medical  attention.  Could  you  examine  him  for 
me,  as  a  very  great  favor  ?  I  know  you  are  very  busy," 
she  said,  smiling  down  upon  him — (Busy?  He  would 
have  let  the  entire  country-side  die  of  typhoid  fever 
for  that  smile!) — "but  I  am  troubled  about  this  poor 
man." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  little  doctor.  "Dear  me,  yes! 
To  be  sure.  'Busy'?  Not  at  all.  I  am  never  too 
busy,  dear  lady,  to — to — ah,  that  is  to  say —  Where 
shall  I  find  this  good  man?  Ah,  yes,  yes.  Here  we 
are."  He  caught  sight  of  Herbert  Buchanan  stand- 
ing near,  enveloped,  as  always,  in  his  foolish,  beaming 
smile,  and  made  for  him  with  a  cheery  greeting. 

The  tramp  dodged  suddenly  and  held  up  one  arm, 
bent  at  the  elbow. 

"I  haven't  done  nothing,  sir,"  he  said.  "Honest,  I 
haven't.  I  only  wanted  a  few  cents  to  buy — I  mean, 
I  was  just  agoing  for  a  walk  with  that  beautiful  lady 
up  there.  She'll  tell  you  I  haven't  done  nothing." 

"  It  is  quite  all  right,"  said  Beatrix  from  the  porch. 
"This  is  a  doctor — a  very  good  gentleman  who  is  go- 
ing to  try  to  cure  your  cough.  Go  with  him,  please, 
and  answer  all  he  asks  you.  I  will  wait  for  you  here." 

The  tramp  gave  one  half-frightened  look  about  him 
and  went,  hanging  uneasily  back. 

In  five  minutes  they  returned,  and  the  little  doctor 
shook  a  grave  head. 

"It  is  consumption,  of  course?"  asked  Beatrix  Far- 
ing. 

207 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

"Oh  yes,"  he  said,  "and  bad  at  that.  Very  bad. 
He's  living  with  about  half  a  lung,  and  the  general 
health  is  poor — anaemic;  improper  food,  I  take  it,  and 
exposure  and  all.  The  poor  fellow  cannot  last  long. 
He  is  badly  broken." 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  and  in  her  tone  Cripps,  the 
worshipping,  heard  only  pity  and  kindness  of  heart. 
"Perhaps  if  he  were  sent  to  a  drier  climate — Arizona 
— the  Adirondacks  ?"  She  held  her  breath. 

"Dear  lady,"  said  Cripps,  with  emotion,  "you  have 
— may  I  venture  to  say  it? — a  heart  of  gold — gold! 
But  this  poor  old  fellow  is  beyond  what  you  would  do 
for  him — what  any  one  could  do  for  him.  Comfort, 
good  food,  a  decent  bed,  that's  all  you  can  do  now. 
Let  him  go  down  as  easily  as  possible.  He  can't 
climb.  A  strange  type,  bewildered  mind,  clouded 
memory.  Doesn't  remember  whether  the  disease  is 
hereditary  in  his  family  or  not.  Doesn't  remember 
any  family  at  all.  Almost  deranged,  I  should  say." 

"Yes,"  said  the  divinity,  in  a  sort  of  whisper,  and 
for  an  instant  an  odd,  bleak  look  shadowed  her  face. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  half  whispering  still. 

"Ah,  what  a  heart!  What  a  soul!  What  sym- 
pathy!" thought  the  prostrate  Cripps. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  "one  ought  to  help  him  there 
also.  Perhaps  an  operation — trephining — something 
to  restore  the  poor  wretch's  memory.  It  may  be  due 
to  a  physical  accident.  He  could  bear  an  operation? 
Yes?"  Again  she  held  her  breath. 

Cripps  was  overcome.  This  was  going  almost  too 
far,  was  wellnigh  quixotic  —  but  what  a  heart!  He 
shook  his  head. 

"Out  of  the  question,  dear  lady,"  he  exclaimed — 
"out  of  the  question.  In  the  first  place,  there  is  no 

208 


ROOM    OF    THE    OLD    GODS    AGAIN 

reason  for  believing  that  any  operation  could  restore 
this  man's  memory — doubtless  the  loss  of  it  is  merely 
due  to  failing  powers ;  and  in  the  second  place,  he  could 
not  endure  any  sort  of  an  operation  at  all,  even  a 
minor  one.  He  is  at  a  low  ebb — a  low  ebb." 

He  smiled  admiringly  up  into  the  still,  white  face 
above  him. 

"  If  this  poor  fellow  is  so  fortunate  as  to  recommend 
himself  to  your  pity,  dear  lady,"  said  he,  "believe  me 
you  can  do  nothing  more  helpful  for  him  than  to 
smooth  his  downward  journey.  Again  I  say,  he  can- 
not climb." 

Somehow  the  good  little  man  must  have  made  his 
embarrassed  adieux  and  got  himself  away,  but  Beatrix 
did  not  know  when  he  went.  She  awakened  to  her 
surroundings  only  when  Buchanan  came  sidling  nearer 
and  coughed  to  attract  her  attention. 

"When  was  we  agoing  to  take  that  walk,  ma'am?" 
he  asked. 

"Walk?"  said  she.  "Walk?  Oh  yes;  to  be  sure. 
We  are  going  to  the  lodge.  Yes,  I  am  quite  ready. 
Come  along.  We  go  this  way." 

They  went,  not  by  the  high-road,  but  by  a  shorter, 
more  direct  route  along  shaded  lanes  and  paths,  and, 
part  of  the  distance,  across  an  open  moor,  and  at  last 
approached  Buchanan  Lodge  from  the  direction  of 
the  sea.  The  house  was  in  charge  of  caretakers. 
Though  excellent  offers  had  been  made  to  her,  Beatrix 
had  always  refused  to  sell  it.  As  for  living  in  it,  that 
was  impossible.  The  place  held  too  many  bitter  as- 
sociations. The  very  sight  of  its  walls  made  her 
shiver. 

What  she  meant  eventually  to  do  with  the  estate 
she  had  never  decided.  There  had  been  no  will,  and 

209 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

Herbert  Buchanan  had  no  kin.  He  was  the  very  last 
of  his  family.  For  the  present,  the  house  stood 
empty,  and  the  invested  fortune,  in  the  hands  of  a 
trust  company,  earned  its  very  respectable  dividends 
and  increased  after  its  kind,  but  the  money  went  un- 
touched. 

"I  will  have  none  of  it,"  Beatrix  said  more  than 
once  to  her  lawyer.  "Oh  yes,  I  am  a  fool,  if  you  like, 
but  I  could  not  touch  it.  It  would  burn  me.  Harry 
and  I,  between  us,  have  much  more  than  enough  of 
our  own." 

Half-way  between  the  greenhouses  and  the  west 
wing  of  the  lodge,  the  lodge's  master,  bent  and 
wizened  and  gray,  halted,  and  passed  an  unsteady 
hand  across  his  eyes. 

"It's  very  queer,"  he  said,  in  a  sort  of  whisper. 
The  foolish  grin  was  gone. 

"What  is  queer?"  asked  the  woman,  and  watched 
his  face. 

"It's — it's  the  things  I  tells  you  about  a-wheeling 
and  a-spinning  in  my  head,  ma'am,"  said  he.  He 
looked  frightened  and  uneasy.  "It's — I  must  have 
saw  this  place  some  time  before,"  he  said.  "I  don't 
know.  It's  very  odd." 

And  once  more,  as  they  slowly  crossed  the  stretch  of 
turf,  he  said  uneasily  that  it  was  very  odd.  And  once 
he  said  that  his  head  wasn't  good  to-day. 

"I  wisht  I  was  out  on  the  Road,"  he  said.  "I  like 
the  Road.  I  wisht  I  was  there,  a-shuffling  along  in 
the  dust  with  Kansas.  Kansas 's  the  finest  pal  a  man 
ever  has,  ma'am,  and  very  good  to  me." 

At  a  door  in  the  servants'  quarters  they  rang  up 
the  caretaker's  wife,  a  faithful  old  woman,  brought 
with  her  husband  and  son  from  that  Connecticut  vil- 

210 


ROOM    OF    THE   OLD    GODS    AGAIN 

lage  where  Beatrix  had  spent  the  winter.  The  woman 
let  them  in,  exclaiming  with  pleasure  over  her  mistress 
and  looking  rather  askance  at  her  mistress's  shabby 
companion. 

"We  should  like  a  drink  of  water,"  said  Beatrix; 
"and  then  I  wish  to  go  into  the  west  chamber — Mr. 
Buchanan's  former  study.  You  need  not  come.  I 
have  a  key  to  the  door  of  the  passage.  This  man, 
my  gardener,  will  go  with  me." 

They  drank  the  cool,  fresh  water  the  woman  brought 
them  and  went  through  darkened  rooms,  where  the 
shrouded  furniture  stood  ghostlike  in  the  shadows,  to 
the  narrow  passage  which  connected  the  detached 
chamber  with  the  house.  Beatrix  opened  the  door 
with  her  key  and  they  entered  that  high,  dim  place 
where  the  air  reeked  faintly  of  dead  incense  and 
smoke-stained  fabrics  and  antiquity;  where  contorted 
monsters  grinned  from  the  gloom  above,  and  the  old 
gods  sat  a-row  smiling,  imperturbable,  waiting  with 
deathless  patience  for  the  centuries  to  pass  and  their 
own  to  come  to  them  again. 

Sufficient  light  came  slanting  down  from  the  small 
clere-story  windows  where  there  were  neither  shutters 
nor  blinds,  and  in  its  dim  glow  the  great  room  stood 
as  it  had  stood  two  years  and  more  since.  Nothing 
had  been  moved  or  altered  in  position.  No  hand  had 
been  there,  even  to  sweep  or  clean,  and  a  thin  film  of 
dust  lay  over  the  great  Byzantine  table  in  the  middle 
of  the  chamber,  and  over  the  things  which  were  lit- 
tered upon  it. 

The  wreck  of  Herbert  Buchanan  moved  slowly 
towards  the  centre  of  the  room — towards  the  great 
table.  He  faltered  as  he  went,  one  hand  held  out 
before  him  as  if  he  were  blind,  and  he  muttered 

211 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

under  his  breath.  The  woman  drew  back  into  the 
shadows. 

For  a  little  while  Buchanan  stood  before  the  table, 
with  his  head  bent,  quite  motionless  and  silent.  Then 
he  went  to  one  side  and  dropped  down  into  the  arm- 
chair where  he  had  used  to  sit  through  so  many  hours 
of  lonely  gloom.  His  hand  went  out,  and  played  aim- 
lessly among  the  things  on  the  table-top — decanters 
and  pipes  and  glasses  and  such.  Presently,  as  if 
some  memory  came  to  the  man,  the  hand  dropped 
and  fumbled  underneath.  There  was  a  clicking  of 
electric  switch  buttons,  but  the  power  had  long  since 
been  turned  off  from  the  house  and  no  lights  sprang 
out  flower-like  among  those  far  shadows. 

He  seemed  to  feel  that  something  was  wrong,  that 
something  ought  to  happen,  for  the  hand  fumbled 
again  among  the  clicking  buttons  and  he  muttered  un- 
intelligibly to  himself.  Then,  after  a  little,  he  shook 
his  head  and  sank  back  in  the  deep  chair,  chin  on 
breast,  staring  before  him. 

As  on  a  certain  other  far  night  it  chanced  that,  as 
he  was  turned,  he  faced  one  of  the  ancient  gods  who 
sat  against  the  wall — Buddha,  in  gilded  bronze,  the 
dull  gold  gone  in  patches  from  the  worn  surface; 
Buddha,  seated  upon  a  lotos  cup,  head  bent  forward 
a  little,  faintly  smiling,  sphinxlike,  enigmatic.  And 
it  must  have  been  that  in  this  moment  the  clouds 
thinned  a  bit,  parted  for  a  space,  and  a  ray  of  memory 
filtered  through.  The  man  stirred  in  his  chair,  and  a 
sudden  flush  of  anger  swept  across  the  white  face. 

"Oh,  for  God's  sake,  stop  grinning  there!"  he  said, 
aloud.  It  was  the  voice  of  Herbert  Buchanan. 

"I  tell  you,"  he  said,  thickly,  with  difficulty,  as  if 
that  voice  did  not  come  easily  to  his  tongue — "I  tell 

212 


ROOM  OF  THE  OLD  GODS  AGAIN 

you  I  can't  bear  it  any  longer.  I  want  to  be  free — I 
want  to — I  want  to  go  out  and  tramp  the  earth — 
breathe — air — I — answerable  to  nobody.  My  nerves 
are  drawn  to — drawn  to  fiddle-strings." 

He  snatched  up  a  book  from  the  table. 

"For  God's  sake,  stop  your  damned  grinning!"  he 
cried,  and  made  as  if  he  would  hurl  the  book  at  that 
still,  oblivious  god,  but  the  book  dropped  weakly 
from  his  hand  and  fell  to  the  floor,  fluttering  its  open 
leaves. 

He  began  again  to  mutter  half  under  his  breath. 
The  voice  was  still  Buchanan's,  dropped  to  a  weak, 
complaining,  whining  tone.  Sometimes  it  quickened 
to  a  flare  of  anger,  sometimes  died  away  altogether. 
But  presently  the  woman,  watching  from  her  shadows, 
tense,  tight-lipped,  still,  became  aware  that  he  imag- 
ined himself  to  be  talking  to  some  one  across  the 
great  table. 

To  whom?  Who  had  sat  with  Buchanan  on  that 
night  of  mystery?  Her  mind  flew  to  his  words  in 
the  lane,  what  time  she  had  striven  verbally  to  re- 
construct this  scene.  "Then  he  came  in  by  the  win- 
dow." Who?  Who?  Had  he  not  gone  alone,  then ? 
Had  some  one  taken  him  out  into  the  night  and  into 
oblivion  ? 

The  man  in  the  chair  gave  a  sort  of  animal-like  cry 
of  desperation.  "Too  cowardly  to  live!"  he  said, 
with  great  bitterness.  "Too  cowardly  to  die!  What 
— what  remedy  can  you  offer  for  that,  my  house- 
breaking  friend?" 

"House-breaking  friend!"  said  the  woman  in  the 
shadows. 

Buchanan  sat  for  a  time  silent,  as  if  he  might  be 
listening.  Then  he  turned  in  his  chair,  half  rising, 

213 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

with  his  hands  on  the  table's  edge  and  his  head  craned 
forward  over  them. 

"My  God!"  he  cried,  in  a  whisper  of  unspeakable 
amazement.  "My  God!"  He  dropped  back  again 
and  sat  staring  before  him.  Then  presently  he  rose 
to  his  feet  and  began  to  walk  back  and  forth,  with  his 
hands  behind  him.  The  woman  drew  back  farther 
into  the  gloom.  Once  she  saw  his  face,  and  it  was 
white  and  tortured.  There  was  mind  there,  thought, 
intelligence.  The  vacant  smile  of  the  little  gray 
tramp  was  gone.  He  wrung  his  hands,  and  his  lips 
drew  tight  and  writhed. 

At  last  he  nodded  strongly  once  or  twice  and  said 
something  which  was  inaudible.  He  went  across  the 
room  towards  a  tall  Japanese  cabinet  which  stood 
there  and  fumbled  at  it.  He  seemed  at  a  loss,  and 
moved  about  uncertainly.  Then  he  went  again  tow- 
ards the  centre-table. 

"Come!"  he  said.  "Off  with  us  now!  Good  God, 
must  we  wait  here  forever?  I'm  sick  to  be  gone." 
He  waited  a  moment  as  if  that  other  invisible  presence 
were  speaking,  and  his  face  flushed. 

"Let  'em  think  what  they  like  and  do  what  they 
like!"  he  cried.  And  the  woman  gasped  in  her  hiding- 
place,  for  these  were  the  very  words  she  had  heard 
him  use  in  her  dream. 

"For  once,"  he  said,  sneering,  "I  shall  be  of  in- 
terest to  my  friends — for  the  first  time."  He  moved 
quickly  across  towards  the  farther  side  of  the  room, 
and  the  woman  followed.  He  went  to  one  of  the 
windows  and  pulled  at  it  with  his  hands.  Then  once 
more  he  faltered  and  seemed  to  be  at  a  loss. 

"It — it  ought  to  be  open,"  he  said,  in  a  differ- 
ent voice.  "You  left  it  open,  didn't  you?  It  ought 

214 


ROOM  OF  THE  OLD  GODS  AGAIN 

to  be  open.  How — "  He  tugged  at  the  fastenings 
again,  muttering  uneasily,  but  his  hands  dropped  and 
he  turned  about  towards  the  woman  who  stood  behind 
him.  His  face  was  almost  contorted  with  anxiety. 

"Let  me,"  said  Beatrix.  "Let  me."  She  wrench- 
ed open  the  bolts,  and  the  two  halves  of  the  window 
swung  inward,  admitting  a  sudden,  garish  flood  of  day- 
light. 

Buchanan  staggered  backward  a  step  with  a  quick, 
hoarse  cry,  and  caught  his  shaking  hands  up  over  his 
eyes. 

And  in  the  same  instant  the  cry  was  echoed  from 
outside  the  window  —  a  gasping  cry  followed  by  a 
name — ' '  Buchanan !  Buchanan  1" 

IS 


Ill 

THE  MAN  WITH  THE  BLUE  EYES 

BEATRIX,  who  had  drawn  back  as  she  pulled  the 
bolt  of  the  window,  leaned  forward  again  over 
Buchanan's  shoulder.  A  man  stood  on  the  turf  be- 
low the  window  in  the  little  patch  of  shade  which  was 
cast  by  an  angle  of  the  building.  He  had  covered  his 
eyes  with  one  hand  and  the  other  hand  groped  in  the 
air.  At  his  feet  lay  a  short,  strong  implement  of  steel, 
not  unlike  a  chisel.  It  would  seem  that  he  must  have 
dropped  this  when  the  window  above  him  was  so  sud- 
denly thrown  open. 

The  hand  slipped  from  before  his  eyes  and  he 
looked  upward,  so  that  Beatrix  saw  his  face.  It  was 
a  face  she  did  not  know — a  lean,  pale  face,  with  a  short 
growth  of  black  beard  which  came  high  up  on  the 
cheek-bones.  But  what  the  woman  saw  first  was  the 
eyes.  She  thought  that  she  had  never  before  met 
eyes  so  pale  blue  and  so  curiously  hard  and  unwink- 
ing. They  rested  upon  her  for  a  long  time,  steady, 
unmoving,  wholly  without  expression.  Then  Herbert 
Buchanan  all  at  once  gave  a  great  shout  and  pushed 
past  her  to  the  window-ledge.  He  scrambled  out, 
dropping  to  the  turf  below,  and  caught  the  man  who 
stood  there  by  the  arm,  laughing  excitedly  and  crying 
out. 

The  man  turned  to  him  for  an  instant's  quick,  keen, 
216 


THE    MAN    WITH    THE    BLUE    EYES 

searching  look,  and  with  one  hand  patted  him  on  the 
side  of  the  gray  head  as  a  mother  might  stroke  a  child 
just  returned  to  her  after  an  absence. 

"All  right,  Johnnie?  All  right,  eh?"  he  said,  and 
Buchanan  laughed  again,  childishly,  and  shook  the 
arm  that  he  held  between  his  two  hands.  Then  he 
turned  his  face  upward  towards  the  window. 

"This  is  Kansas,  ma'am,"  he  said,  with  great  pride. 
It  was  the  little,  bent,  foolish  tramp  again.  The  re- 
created spirit  of  Herbert  Buchanan  had  fled  with  the 
inburst  of  that  flood  of  summer  daylight  into  the 
chamber  of  the  old  gods — the  chamber  of  mysteries. 

"This  here  is  my  pal,  ma'am,"  he  said,  "the  finest 
pal  a  man  ever  had."  He  turned  to  the  man  beside 
him  with  a  swift,  stammering  narrative  of  the  things 
the  beautiful  lady  had  done  for  him — the  wonderful 
food,  and  the  real  bed  in  the  little  house  that  was  all 
his  own,  and  the  garden  and  the  dog  with  the  thin  waist 
who  growled  so  remarkable  when  you  kicked  at  him. 

But  the  man  whom  he  called  "Kansas"  seemed  to 
pay  him  small  attention  after  that  first  odd,  womanish 
caress.  His  hard  blue  eyes,  unwinking,  unwavering, 
without  expression,  never  left  the  face  of  the  woman 
in  the  window  above.  And  the  woman  stared  back 
curiously,  with  a  vague,  cold  fear  beginning  to  grow 
about  her  heart. 

What  did  this  man  know  ?  Why  had  he  called  out 
"Buchanan!  Buchanan!"  when  his  fellow-tramp  ap- 
peared unexpectedly  before  him?  An  odd  sense  of 
peril  came  to  her,  an  odd  presentiment  of  impending 
catastrophe,  and  she  shivered  in  the  warm  summer  air. 

"  Why  are  you  here  ?"  she  asked,  presently.  "  What 
were  you  doing  outside  this  window  ?"  The  hard  blue 
eyes  did  not  stir  from  hers. 

217 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

"I  was  looking  for  a  door,  ma'am,"  he  said,  readily. 
"I  rung  and  knocked  at  one  door  in  the  other  part  of 
the  house  yonder,  but  nobody  answered.  I  thought, 
maybe,  there  was  a  door  hereabouts." 

"And  that  ?"  said  she,  pointing  to  the  steel  instru- 
ment which  lay  at  his  feet. 

"That  ain't  mine,  ma'am,"  he  said,  without  emo- 
tion. "It  don't  belong  to  me.  Some  one  else  must 
have  dropped  it  there." 

"Why,"  said  she  again,  "did  you  call  out  a  name — 
'Buchanan' — when  this  window  was  opened  and  you 
saw  your — your  friend  standing  there?  He  tells  me 
his  name  is  John." 

The  man  below  continued  to  gaze  at  her,  unwinking. 
There  was  not  the  slightest  trace  of  expression  in 
either  his  face  or  his  respectful  tone. 

"They  told  me  down  the  road  a  bit,  ma'am,"  he 
said,  "that  a  gentleman  named  Buchanan  lived  here. 
I  was  agoing  to  ask  him  for  work.  When  I  saw  the 
window  open  so  quick  I  was  startled  like,  and  I  called 
out:  'Mr.  Buchanan."'  He  paused  a  moment,  and 
then,  still  in  his  level,  expressionless  voice,  asked: 

"Beg  pardon,  ma'am,  are  you  Mrs.  Buchanan, 
ma'am?"  She  answered  quite  mechanically,  taking 
no  thought. 

"  I  wasM.rs.  Buchanan,"  she  said.  "I  am  Mrs.  Faring." 

Then  for  the  first  time  something  flickered  in  the 
hard  blue  eyes,  an  odd,  enigmatic  look.  The  eyes 
dropped,  and  the  man  turned  a  little  aside.  He  did 
not  immediately  speak  again,  but  looked  towards  the 
gray  tramp  who  stood  beaming  foolishly  near  by. 
And  he  looked  down  at  his  hands,  twisting  and  turn- 
ing them  slowly  before  him.  He  had  the  air  to  be 
reflecting. 

218 


THE    MAN    WITH   THE    BLUE    EYES 

"I  was  going  to  ask  Mr.  Buchanan  for  work,"  he 
said,  at  last.  He  spoke  as  if  half  to  himself. 

"Mr.  Buchanan  is  dead,"  said  she. 

The  man  raised  his  eyes  again  slowly,  and  the 
woman  was  conscious  of  a  dull  anger  that  they  should 
so  baffle  her,  that  eyes  should  be  so  wholly  without 
expression. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  he  said.     "To  be  sure,  ma'am." 

"You  couldn't  find  something  for  me  to  do,  could 
you,  ma'am?"  he  said.  "I'd  like  to  have  a  steady 
job.  I'm  tired  of  starving  and  sleeping  out  in  the 
rain." 

"I'm  afraid  I  have  nothing  to  offer  you,"  she  said, 
coldly.  "Besides,  your  friend,  doubtless  without 
meaning  any  disloyalty,  has  told  me  something  of 
your  ordinary  occupation.  One  would  hesitate,  I 
think,  in  the  face  of  that,  to  take  you  in." 

The  man  gave  a  swift  side  look  towards  his  smiling 
companion,  but  he  did  not  hesitate. 

"Johnnie  doesn't  always  know  quite  what  he's  say- 
ing, ma'am,"  he  said.  "He  don't  always  understand 
things.  I  wouldn't  steal  anything.  You  could  set  a 
watch  over  me  if  you  wanted  to." 

"I  can  offer  you  no  work,  I  am  afraid,"  said  the 
woman.  There  was  a  note  of  very  definite  finality  in 
her  tone,  but  the  hard  blue  eyes  did  not  stir. 

"I'm  tired  of  starving  and  sleeping  out  in  the  rain," 
said  the  man  again.  He  spoke  quite  unemotionally, 
but  for  some  reason  the  chill  about  Beatrix  Paring's 
heart  grew  colder,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  a  hand 
almost  physical  began  to  press  at  her  throat.  She 
tried  to  look  away,  but  the  still  blue  eyes  held  her 
eyes  and  she  could  not. 

"And  Johnnie,  ma'am,"  said  the  man,  softly — 
219 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

"Johnnie,  he's  tired  of  sleeping  out,  too.  He  isn't 
very  well,  Johnnie  isn't.  He's  got  a  bad  cough.  If 
Johnnie  and  me,  now,  could  have  a  quiet  place  to  live 
in  and  good  food  to  eat  and  no  more  worrying  to  do, 
that  would  be  very  pleasant.  Remarkable  pleasant." 

"It  is  impossible,"  said  Beatrix  Faring,  in  a  shaking 
whisper.  "Impossible.  I  could  not  think  of  it." 

"Of  course,"  the  man  went  on,  as  if  she  had  not 
spoken — "of  course,  Johnnie  he  isn't  up  to  much  for 
work,  but  I'm  strong.  I  can  do  Johnnie's  work  while 
he  lies  about  in  the  sun  and  gets  strong  again  —  as 
strong  as  he'll  ever  be.  It  would  be  very  kind  to 
take  Johnnie  in  and  make  him  comfortable  in  his  old 
age;  wouldn't  it,  ma'am?  Of  course,  I'd  have  to 
come,  too,  because  Johnnie  couldn't  get  on  without 
me.  He  wouldn't  stay,  it's  likely.  He'd  be  restless. 
You  see,"  he  said,  passively,  "me  and  Johnnie,  we 
have  been  together  a  long  time,  ma'am,  and  we 
wouldn't  like  to  be  separated.  Would  we,  Johnnie?" 
He  turned  to  the  foolish,  smiling  figure  of  the  tramp, 
and  Buchanan  gave  a  little  laugh. 

"Oh  no,  ma'am,"  said  he.  "I  couldn't  never  live 
without  Kansas.  Kansas  is  the  finest  pal  a  man  ever 
had,  and  wonderful  good  to  me." 

"A  long  time,"  said  the  man  with  the  blue  eyes; 
"ever  since  Johnnie  got — got  his  head  hurt,  and  even 
before  that,  ma'am." 

Beatrix  Faring,  standing  rigid  and  still  in  her  win- 
dow, gave  a  low  cry. 

"Even  before  that,"  said  the  man,  gently.  "He's 
had  a  remarkably  odd  life,  Johnnie  has.  Some  day 
I'll  tell  you  all  about  it,  ma'am.  You  see,  Johnnie 
was  once — " 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Beatrix  Faring.  "Yes,  I —  An- 
220 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  BLUE  EYES 

other  day  you  shall  tell  me.  I  do  not  know  about  the 
work.  I  will  ask  the  gardener."  She  pressed  her 
hands  over  her  heart  that  was  so  cold,  and  a  haze 
came  before  her — a  colored  haze.  Through  it  she  saw 
only  two  hard  blue  eyes  that  stared  and  stared  and 
saw  through  her  far  down  into  her  quaking,  shivering, 
terror-racked  soul.  It  would  have  been  a  comfort  to 
scream,  but  she  had  no  voice. 

After  a  long  time  she  said,  with  difficulty: 

"  I  will  see.  You  may  come  with  me  if  you  like,  to 
where  I  live.  I  will  see  about  the  work.  Wait  for 
me.  I  will  join  you  in  a  moment." 

She  swung  the  window  shut  with  the  last  of  her 
strength,  and  bolted  it.  And  she  turned  with  stum- 
bling, groping  steps  to  make  her  way  out  of  that  cham- 
ber of  horrors.  An  infinite  weariness  lay  upon  her. 

"He  knows  everything,"  she  said  to  herself  in  the 
shadows.  "Everything.  And  I  am  lost.  Oh,  Harry! 
Harry!"  she  cried,  in  despair,  shaken  with  silent  agony, 
"  God  has  forgotten  me,  and  I  am  all  alone,  and  my  sin 
has  found  me  out.  I  shall  lose  you,  Harry,  after  all!" 

The  grace  of  tears  came  to  her  and  lay  wet  upon 
her  face.  But  after  a  little  she  brushed  them  angrily 
away  and  drew  a  great  breath. 

"Not  yet!"  she  said,  defiantly,  to  the  ancient  gods 
who  stared  across  at  her,  sitting  a-row. 

"I'm  not  lost  yet!"  she  cried.  "God  has  forgotten 
me,  and  I  am  all  alone,  but  I  shall  fight  until  I  can 
fight  no  longer.  Oh,  Harry,  it  may  be  that  I  can 
save  us  yet,  for  love's  sake.  It  may  be,  Harry.  It 
may  be." 

Then,  locking  the  door  behind  her,  she  went  out  to 
rejoin  Herbert  Buchanan  and  the  man  with  the  blue 
eyes. 

221 


IV 

BEATRIX    LOCKS    HER   DOOR 

FARING  returned  home  late  on  the  third  day  after 
his  departure.  He  was  just  in  time  for  dinner — 
they  made  a  habit  of  dining  early,  so  that  they  might 
have  the  last  of  the  sunset  and  the  beginning  of  dusk 
in  the  garden — and  Beatrix  was  waiting  for  him  at 
the  inner  gate  of  the  long  lane. 

His  face  went  quite  white  when  he  saw  her,  for 
these  three  days  and  what  had  occurred  in  them  had 
altered  her  terribly.  He  leaped  down  from  the  trap 
which  had  brought  him  and  stood  holding  her  hands, 
staring  into  her  face,  quite  silent  until  the  trap  had 
driven  on  to  the  stable  and  the  footman  had  taken 
his  luggage  into  the  house. 

"What  is  it?"  he  said  then,  in  a  whisper.  "Oh, 
Betty,  what  is  it?  What  has  happened?" 

She  broke  into  a  dry  sobbing,  and  hid  her  face  on 
his  breast,  and  in  the  circle  of  his  arms  she  crept 
closer,  pressing  against  him  until  he  felt  the  sobs 
shake  her  from  head  to  foot. 

"Nothing,  Harry,"  she  said.  "Nothing,  nothing. 
Only  don't  go  away  from  me  again.  I  can't — really 
it's  nothing.  Believe  me.  But  I  can't  bear  being 
alone.  Such  things  might  happen.  Don't  leave  me 
alone  again,  Harry." 

Faring  began  a  little,  nervous,  overwrought  laugh. 
222 


BEATRIX    LOCKS    HER    DOOR 

"I  sha'n't  let  you  go  out  of  my  sight  again,"  he 
said.  "I  sha'n't  go  out  of  yours  ever.  But  for  a 
moment  you  frightened  me  horribly.  Has  it  been  so 
lonely,  Betty?  I — you  know  I  haven't  had  such  a 
very  jolly  time  myself.  If  I  weren't  ashamed  to,  I 
should  have  bolted  back  home  within  twenty-four 
hours.  Anyhow,  I  don't  go  alone  next  time.  That's 
certain.  Look  up,"  he  said. 

She  raised  her  face  to  him,  and  the  joy  of  having 
him  back,  of  again  having  his  strength  to  cling  to,  the 
touch  of  him,  the  sound  of  his  voice,  were  so  powerful 
that,  for  the  moment  at  least,  that  strain  and  fear 
seemed  to  have  passed  from  her,  leaving  a  glory  in 
their  place,  and  Faring  laughed  again — a  laugh  of 
relief. 

"Ah,  that's  better,"  he  said.  "That's  more  you, 
Betty.  You  did  frighten  me." 

"Hold  me  closer,  Harry,"  she  cried,  in  a  little,  fierce 
whisper.  "Closer.  I  want  to  be  hurt.  I  want  to 
forget  everything  except  that  you're  here  again.  Ah, 
never  go  away  from  me  again,  dearest.  Never, 
never!" 

They  dined  after  a  fashion — a  rather  silly,  honey- 
moon fashion,  such  as  early  Victorian  painters  were  so 
fond  of  portraying — and  afterwards  walked  in  the 
garden. 

Down  below  the  roses,  in  the  walled  enclosure  of 
old-time  flowers,  the  man  with  the  hard  blue  eyes 
busied. himself ,  not  too  feverishly,  with  a  watering-pot, 
and  Johnnie,  smiling  his  amiable  smile,  looked  on 
from  the  vantage  of  an  overturned  barrow. 

"  Hallo !"  said  Faring.  "  Who  are  those  two  ?  New 
gardeners  ?" 

223 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

"One  of  them  is,"  said  the  woman,  "the  one  with 
the  beard.  The  other  is  a  poor  old  man — a  tramp, 
who  is  ill  and  worn  out  and  cannot  work  much.  He 
was  sent  to  me  by — "  She  started  to  say  by  Arabella 
Crowley,  but  there  might  be  danger  in  that.  "By 
some  people  up  in  that  Connecticut  village  of  mine," 
she  said.  "  He  has  had  a  very  sad  time  of  it,"  she  said, 
"and  I  want  to  make  him  comfortable  for  a  while. 
You  must  let  me,  Harry.  You  mustn't  stop  me.  It's 
a  whim  of  mine." 

Faring  laughed  gently. 

"You  shall  have  all  the  whims  you  like,"  he  said, 
"and  you  shall  follow  them  all  out.  The  poor  old 
beggar  looks  as  if  he  needed  a  comfortable  time. 
Jove,  that's  a  nasty  cough!  Are  you  putting  him  up 
in  one  of  the  huts ?  Right." 

He  halted  near  the  man  with  the  watering-pot,  and 
looked  at  him  attentively,  with  a  little  frown,  as  if  he 
were  trying  to  remember  something. 

"I've  seen  you  somewhere  before,  my  man,"  he 
said,  at  last. 

The  man  said  "Yes,  sir,"  civilly,  and  as  Faring 
did  not  immediately  go  on,  he  continued: 

"It  might  be  almost  anywheres,  sir.  I've  been 
about  a  good  bit." 

"Ye-es,"  said  young  Faring,  frowning  intently.  "I 
should  like  to  know  where.  It's  rather  odd." 

Suddenly  Beatrix  saw  something  come  into  the 
hard  blue  eyes.  They  seemed  to  widen  a  bit.  Then 
for  an  instant  they  dropped,  and  the  man  put  up  one 
hand  over  his  mouth.  She  imagined  a  smile  there — a 
triumphant  smile,  very  awful. 

"I  think  I  know  where  it  was,  sir,"  said  the  man, 
looking  up  again. 

224 


BEATRIX    LOCKS    HER    DOOR 

"  Yes  ?"  said  Faring.     "  Where,  then  ?" 

The  man  looked  towards  Beatrix,  and  she  drew  a 
quick  breath. 

"I  think  it  must  have  been  in  Cape  Town,  sir, 
three  years  ago,"  said  the  man.  "I  was  down  from 
Maf eking  just  about  then." 

"Ye-es,"  said  Faring  again,  slowly.  "It  may  be. 
I  was  there  at  that  time.  I  think  I  have  seen  you 
since  then,  though.  It  doesn't  matter,  of  course." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  man,  looking  still  at  Beatrix 
Faring. 

She  pulled  at  her  husband's  arm. 

"Come,  Harry,"  she  said.  "We're  missing  the  sun- 
set. Come."  And  they  turned  away.  But  Faring 
paused  for  an  instant  more  beside  the  bent  little  gray 
man  who  sat  smiling  on  the  overturned  barrow. 

"Mrs.  Faring  tells  me  you  have  been  ill,"  he  said. 
"  I'm  glad  she  has  taken  you  in  hand.  We  shall  have 
you  right  again  soon,  doubtless.  But  if  I  were  you 
I'd  keep  in  out  of  the  night  air.  It  isn't  too  good  for 
coughs." 

Herbert  Buchanan  made  a  sort  of  bobbing  courtesy. 

"Thankee,  sir,"  he  said.  "The  beautiful  lady  has 
been  very  good  to  me,  sir.  I  feels  fine,  being  fed  so 
proper  and  so  often  and  having  a  real  bed  to  sleep  in. 
I'm  very  nicely,  sir,  thankee." 

Faring  nodded  cheerfully,  and  they  turned  away 
towards  the  foot  of  the  garden  where  the  path  began 
to  mount  to  Phryne's  little  hill  of  vantage.  As  they 
turned,  Beatrix  stumbled,  and  would  have  fallen  if  Far- 
ing had  not  caught  her  in  his  arms.  She  gave  a  small  cry. 

"It's  nothing,"  she  said.  "I  caught  my  foot. 
Come,  we'll  go  on."  She  leaned  a  bit  heavily  upon 
her  husband  as  they  walked,  and  drew  his  arm  close 

225 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

about  her  shoulders.  Faring  thought  it  was  one  of 
her  many  little  expressions  of  tenderness,  and  when 
they  had  gone  out  of  sight  of  the  two  men  he  stooped 
and  kissed  her  lips.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  had  come 
very  near  to  fainting.  She  had  not  realized,  until  it 
was  over,  how  terrible  a  strain  she  suffered  when 
Harry  Faring  stood  face  to  face  with  what  remained 
of  Herbert  Buchanan  and  spoke  with  him.  She  had 
brought  the  meeting  about  rather  deliberately  because 
it  had  to  occur,  but  when  it  was  over,  when  Faring 
turned  away  with  a  careless  nod,  the  world  went  sud- 
denly black  before  her  eyes,  and  she  cried  out,  and 
would  have  fallen  but  for  her  husband's  arm. 

Sitting  up  in  the  little  open  pavilion  with  his  wife's 
head  in  the  hollow  of  his  shoulder,  Faring  looked  out 
to  the  golden  west,  and  the  frowning  effort  at  recol- 
lection again  pulled  at  his  brows. 

"It  annoys  me  to  forget  things,"  he  said.  "And  it 
annoys  me  still  more  to  forget  people.  Where  have 
I  seen  your  villanous  gardener -man  before?  Those 
hard  eyes  of  his  are  extraordinary.  One  would  hardly 
forget  them,  I  should  think,  and  yet  I  vaguely  con- 
nect him  with  something  shady,  but  I  can't  think 
what.  What's  the  matter  with  his  left  cheek,  by-the- 
way?  He  lets  his  beard  grow  high  up  on  the  cheek- 
bones, but  on  the  left  side  there's  something  like  the 
beginning  of  a  scar  above  the  line  of  beard.  If  I 
could  see  him  shaved  now  I  should  remember,  I  think. 
Let  me  see.  A  man  with  hard  blue  eyes  and  a  scarred 
cheek.  If  only  he  hadn't  that  scrubby  beard — " 

Beatrix  stirred  her  head  uneasily  on  his  shoulder, 
and  he  jave  a  little  laugh  and  bent  down  over  her. 

"Hang  beards  and  scars  and  blue  eyes!"  said  he. 
"They're  nothing  to  us." 

226 


BEATRIX    LOCKS    HER    DOOR 

"No,"  said  the  woman,  turning  her  face  away. 
"Oh  no,  they're  nothing  to  us,  Harry.  Let's  forget 
them.  They're  nothing  to  us." 

It  seemed  to  her  that  her  soul  must  be  writhing  and 
shivering.  That  golden,  glowing  splendor  of  the 
western  sky  darkened  before  her,  and  out  of  it  two 
cold  lights  burned,  hard  lights,  pale -blue  lights,  a 
pair  of  steady,  unwinking  eyes  that  watched  and 
watched,  never  closing,  never  wavering,  either  by 
night  or  day. 

"He  knows  everything,"  her  quaking  soul  said  to 
her.  "Everything.  When  will  he  tell ?" 

Faring  spoke  to  her.  Some  outward,  mechanical, 
second  self  heard  him  and  mechanically  answered. 
Presently  she  became  aware  that  this  outward  second 
self  was  engaged  in  an  extended  and  varied  conversa- 
tion which  it  managed  with  surprising  fidelity  to  life 
quite  as  she  would  have  done  it  herself.  Inwardly 
she  stood  alone  with  her  naked  soul  and  cowered  be- 
fore it,  striving  to  cloak  it  from  those  hard  pale  eyes 
that  stared  and  stared  and  laughed  and  bided  their 
time. 

This  endured  for,  it  may  be,  two  hours.  Then  the 
night  came  down,  black  and  damp,  and  a  little  chill 
breeze  bore  up  from  the  invisible  sea. 

"We  must  go  in,"  said  the  man.  "You  will  be 
chilled  through  if  we  sit  here  longer." 

They  went,  clasped,  enlaced,  as  they  were  wont  to 
go,  save  that  Beatrix  Taring's  heart  was  a  little  heap 
of  gray  ashes  instead  of  a  passionate  thing  which 
shivered  with  joy.  They  went  through  the  garden, 
where  strange,  odorous  growths,  night-transmuted, 
leaned  towards  them  out  of  the  gloom,  and  so  on  into 
the  lamplighted  house  and  up  the  stairs. 

227 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

In  her  own  broad,  dim  chamber  Beatrix  turned  to 
her  husband  and  pulled  his  head  down  so  that  his  face 
lay  upon  hers.  And  she  gave  a  great  sob,  without 
tears,  and  pushed  him  towards  the  door  which  opened 
from  her  room  into  his.  He  kissed  her  and  went,  but 
behind  his  back  he  heard  the  door  close  sharply  and 
the  key  turn  in  the  lock. 

He  turned  with  a  sudden  exclamation.  There  had 
never  been  a  locked  door  between  them,  nor  even  a 
closed  one.  He  stood  thinking  for  a  moment,  one 
hand  on  the  door-knob.  It  occurred  to  him  that 
Beatrix  had  been  hardly  herself  all  the  evening — 
silent,  distrait,  preoccupied. 

He  went  out  of  the  room  and  along  the  corridor  to 
her  door,  which  the  two  had  not  closed  in  entering,  so 
that  it  still  swung  half  open.  He  knocked  upon  it 
lightly  and  went  in.  Beatrix  was  crouching  upon  the 
floor  beside  her  bed,  and  her  head  was  between  her 
out-stretched  arms.  He  called  out  to  her  gently: 

"Betty!  Betty!"  And  she  rose  silently  and  turned 
towards  him.  "You  locked  your  door,"  he  said.  It 
was  as  if  he  had  said:  "You  struck  me  in  the  face." 
"You  locked  your  door,  Betty,"  he  said. 

She  nodded,  looking  away.  "Yes,"  she  said.  "I 
know." 

"But  why  ?  Why  ?"  cried  Faring,  and  put  out  his 
arms  to  her.  "You've  never  locked  me  away  from 
you  before,  Betty.  Why?" 

She  came  into  his  arms,  but  passively,  without  re- 
sponse, her  head  turned  away  over  his  shoulder. 

"Oh,  dearest,"  said  he,  "you  must  tell  me  what  is 
the  matter.  You're  very  far  from  being  yourself.  I 
felt  that  something  was  wrong  the  moment  I  arrived, 
and  I've  felt  it  ever  since.  What  is  it,  Betty?  For 

228 


BEATRIX    LOCKS    HER    DOOR 

Heaven's  sake,  can't  you  tell  me  if  anything  is  troubling 
you?  Must  we  hide  things  from  each  other?" 

"Oh,  trust  me,  Harry,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  was 
much  sadder  than  tears  could  have  been.  "Trust  me. 
I'm  doing  nothing  that — that  is  unnecessary.  I  lock- 
ed the  door  because  I  had  not  the  heart  to  say  what — 
what  the  locked  door  said  so  briefly.  I  hoped  you'd 
understand,  or  misunderstand,  or  something,  and  not 
come  back.  The  door  must  be  closed,  locked,  for  the 
present.  And  don't  ask  questions.  Trust  me.  I'm 
doing  only  what  I  must  do."  She  turned  in  his  arms, 
facing  him.  "Oh,  Harry,"  she  cried,  "if  you  think  I 
am  doing  this  for  any  light  whim,  if  you  think  that 
my  love  for  you  is  the  littlest,  littlest  bit  less  or  cooler, 
if  you  think  that  I  can  bear  being  away  from  you  with- 
out agony,  I  think  I  shall  die.  You  must  trust  me, 
Harry,  and  not  ask  me  any  questions." 

"Trust  you!"  said  he,  with  his  face  against  her 
hair.  "Trust  you?  I  couldn't  distrust  you  and  go 
on  living.  But  I  wish — "  He  gave  a  sudden  cry. 

"Betty!  Betty!"  And  he  tried  to  turn  her  face 
up  to  his,  but  she  held  it  against  the  strength  of  his 
hands.  "Oh,  child,"  he  cried,  "do  I  know  what  it  is? 
Have  I  guessed  it?"  Poignant  and  joyful  imaginings 
raced  through  his  brain.  "Is  it  that,  Betty?"  he  said. 
"Are  you  going  to  make  me  even  happier  than  I  was 
before?  Is  it  that?" 

Beatrix  stared  blankly  at  him  through  the  half 
darkness.  Then  she  gave  an  exceedingly  bitter  moan 
and  turned  away  across  the  room. 

"Ah,  go!  go!  Go,  Harry!"  she  said,  and  once  more 
dropped  down  upon  the  floor,  crouching  beside  her 
bed  and  hiding  her  face  between  her  outflung  arms. 

Faring  took  one  step  towards  her,  then  he  turned 
229 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

and  tiptoed  softly  out  of  the  room,  closing  the  door 
behind  him. 

After  a  long  time  the  woman  stirred,  writhing  on 
the  floor. 

"I  am  stained  and  blackened  from  head  to  foot," 
she  said.  "That  Harry  should  have  thought — that! 
That  I  should  let  him  think  that!"  She  beat  her 
hands  together  very  miserably.  "Shall  I  ever  be 
clean?"  she  cried.  "Shall  I  ever  be  free  of  lies  and 
deceit?"  Again,  after  another  long  time,  she  spoke. 
"And  I  did  it  all  for  love's  sake,  Harry!"  she  said. 
"All  for  love's  sake!  Are  you  going  to  turn  from  me 
like  God  when  you  know?" 


JOHNNIE    AND    KANSAS    MAKE    THEIR   PLANS 

MEANWHILE  little  Johnnie  and  the  man  called 
Kansas  had  gone  to  their  hut  at  the  foot  of  the 
orchard  down  beyond  the  greenhouses.     The  hut  was 
a  tiny  structure,  a  story  and  a  half  in  height,  with 
two  connecting  rooms  below  and  a  loft  above. 

The  man  Kansas  lighted  the  lamp  which  stood  on  a 
table  against  the  wall  of  the  larger  room,  and  then 
busied  himself  with  filling  his  pipe  from  a  paper  of 
black  tobacco.  Little  Johnnie  sank  into  a  chair,  and 
a  fit  of  coughing  seized  him  and  fiercely  shook  all  his 
wasted,  shrunken  body.  It  was  pitiful  to  see,  but  one 
would  not  have  expected  a  show  of  emotion  over  it 
from  that  singularly  emotionless  individual  with  the 
hard  blue  eyes.  However,  the  man  really  had,  it 
would  seem,  somewhere  within  him  something  like  a 
heart,  which  could  be  touched  by  the  suffering  of  this 
wizened  wreck  whose  fortunes  he  chose  to  share.  He 
stopped  with  the  pipe  half-way  to  his  lips  and  his  face 
twisted  as  if  he  were  in  sudden  pain.  Then  he  crossed 
the  room  to  the  chair  where  Johnnie  crouched,  bent 
double  with  his  rending  paroxysm,  and  stroked  the 
bowed  shoulder  as  tenderly  as  a  woman  could  have 
done. 

"There,  there,  Johnnie!     There,  there,  little  man!" 
And  Johnnie,  albeit  with  crimson  face  and  starting 

16  231 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

eyeballs,  grinned  up  to  him,  and  presently,  when  the 
fit  had  passed,  leaned  his  head  against  the  other's 
arm,  gasping  and  breathing  hard  till  his  feeble  strength 
had  come  back  to  him. 

"That  was  a  nasty  one,"  he  said,  whispering. 
"That  there  was  a  nasty  one." 

"Ay,  Johnnie,"  said  the  other  man,  and  went  back 
to  his  pipe.  "A  nasty  one  it  was.  We  mustn't  let 
you  stop  out  in  the  night  air  so  late  another  time." 
He  lighted  his  pipe  and  sat  down  in  a  chair  across  the 
room. 

"That's  it,"  said  Johnnie,  eagerly.  "It's  the  night 
air  does  it.  It's  damp -like.  Grrr!  It  hurts  in  the 
middle  of  my  chest.  There's  something  burns  there, 
most  remarkable  bad." 

The  other  man  did  not  answer,  but  sat  still  in  his 
chair,  purling  great  clouds  of  smoke,  and,  through 
them,  staring  very  thoughtfully  across  the  room.  Sud- 
denly he  gave  a  short  laugh  quite  without  mirth. 

"I've  seen  you  somewheres  before,  my  man,'"  he 
quoted,  with  seeming  relish,  and  laughed  again,  very 
grimly. 

"Ay,  governor,  that  you  have,"  he  said.  "That 
you  have.  And  it  weren't  in  Cape  Town,  neither. 
Ho,  ho!" 

He  fell  silent  once  more,  puffing  great  clouds  of 
smoke  from  his  pipe,  but  he  seemed  to  be  thinking 
busily,  for  at  intervals  that  odd,  mirthless  laugh  broke 
from  him  and  he  nodded  his  head.  Whenever  he 
laughed,  little  Johnnie,  watching  his  face  worshipfully, 
doglike,  laughed  also  his  vacant,  meaningless  laugh 
and  shuffled  his  feet  on  the  floor.  The  other  man 
smoked  in  silence  for  a  long  time. 

"It's  come,"  he  said,  at  length,  staring  into  the 
232 


JOHNNIE    AND    KANSAS 

cloud  of  tobacco-smoke  as  one  who  saw  things  there. 
"It's  come  at  last,  and,  Gawd,  it's  come  queer!" 

"Most  remarkable  queer!"  croaked  little  Johnnie 
from  across  the  room. 

"We'll  just  be  agoing  on  soon,  Johnnie,  lad,"  he 
said.  "We've  had  enough  of  tending  little  flowers 
and  a-touching  our  caps  when  people  comes  near. 
We'll  just  be  agoing  on  soon.  Like  that,  eh?" 

"Ay,  Kansas,  wouldn't  I,  just!"  cried  the  bent  little 
man,  huskily.  "It's  so  foolish-like,  a-living  in  one 
place  for  days  and  days  when  there's  the  Road  await- 
ing out  yonder.  I  want  to  wake  up  with  the  sun 
shining  comfortable  in  my  eyes,"  he  said,  "and  the 
little  ants  a-crawling  over  me.  That's  what  I  want." 

"And  your  pockets  full  of  money,"  said  the  man 
with  the  blue  eyes. 

Johnnie  grinned  with  humorous  appreciation  of  the 
jest.  "  I  haven't  never  waked  up  just  like  that,"  he  said. 
"I  don't  know  where  the  money  is  a-coming  from." 

"Maybe  not,  little  man,"  said  Kansas.  "Maybe 
not,  but  7  do.  Heaps  and  heaps  of  money  we'll  have. 
Money  enough  to  bury  yourself  in,  money  enough  to 
buy  houses  if  you  took  a  fancy  to  'em.  Money 
enough  to  be  a  gentleman,  and  never  do  nothing  but 
go  about  throwing  it  away." 

The  other  maintained  the  feeble  grin  of  one  pleased 
at  a  jest  somewhat  beyond  his  reach. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said,  doubtfully.  "I  haven't 
never  had  any  money." 

"Never,  Johnnie?"  said  the  man  with  the  blue  eyes. 
"Never?" 

"No,  never!"  he  said. 

The  man  with  the  blue  eyes  leaned  forward,  pipe  in 
hand. 

233 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

"Once  there  was  a  man  called  Buchanan,"  he  said. 
"He  had  heaps  of  money. 

Little  Johnnie's  eyes  clouded,  and  he  stirred  in  his 
chair. 

"Are  you  agoing  to  begin  that  all  over  again, 
Kansas?"  he  pleaded.  "It's  all  so  damn  foolish,  and 
it  makes  my  head  go  round  and  round  so  queer.  I'd 
rather  not." 

The  other  man  sighed,  leaning  back  in  his  chair. 
"Never  mind,"  said  he.  "It's  no  good,  anyhow. 
You've  forgot  altogether,  haven't  you,  little  man?" 

Johnnie  shook  his  head  gloomily.  "I  expect  I  must 
have  knew  such  a  man,"  he  said,  "because  his  name 
makes  my  head  go  round,  but  I  can't  remember,  and 
I  don't  like  to  try.  When  are  we  agoing  away?  I 
don't  like  it  here.  My  head's  bad  most  of  the  time. 
I  want  to  get  out  on  the  Road  again." 

"Very  soon,  Johnnie,  very  soon,"  said  the  man 
Kansas,  nodding  into  the  shadows.  "It  ain't  quite 
safe  here  now,  with  that  gentleman  come  back.  I 
don't  like  the  look  of  him.  Some  day  he'll  remember 
where  him  and  me  met  before.  He'll  remember  that 
it  weren't  in  Cape  Town.  I'd  like  to  be  away  then." 

"You  ain't  afraid  of  him,  are  you,  Kansas?"  de- 
manded little  Johnnie,  anxiously,  and  the  other 
laughed. 

"No,  Johnnie,"  he  said.  "He's  afraid  of  me — 
leastways  he  would  be  if  he  knew  some  things,  and  if 
he's  ever  afraid  of  anything,  I  wonder.  But  just  the 
same  we'll  go  in  a  day  or  two  —  to-morrow  night, 
maybe,  after  I've  had  a  little  talk  with  your  beautiful 
lady.  No,  I  don't  like  the  look  of  him.  He's  a  bull- 
dog, Johnnie.  He'd  never  let  go  once  he  took  hold." 
The  man  smoked  for  another  long  time  in  silence. 

234 


^ 

>      ^^k 


'SHE'LL  DO  ANVTIIINT. 


JYTIIIXC,  TO  KEEP  IT  QCIET.'  HE  SAID,  NODD.XC.  " 


JOHNNIE    AND    KANSAS 

" Easy,  easy,"  he  said,  finally.  "Easy  as  you  like." 
He  seemed  to  be  speaking  his  thoughts  aloud,  forgetful 
of  the  man  across  the  room.  "She'll  do  anything  to 
keep  it  quiet,"  he  said,  nodding.  "She's  frightened 
blue.  Anything  to  keep  it  quiet.  How  much  now,  I 
wonder  ?  Something  down  and  something  every  quar- 
ter or  every  month.  That's  how." 

Again  he  dropped  back  into  his  brooding  silence  of 
thought  and  smoke,  and  so  continued  for  an  hour  or 
more,  muttering  to  himself  at  intervals,  shaking  or 
nodding  his  head  judicially. 

Towards  midnight  he  rose,  stretching  his  arms,  and 
looked  across  to  where  his  comrade  sat  huddled 
against  the  wall,  chin  drooping  sleepily  upon  his  breast. 

"Time  for  bed,  Johnnie,"  said  he.  "You  ought  to 
have  went  long  since.  I  was  thinking  things  over, 
and  I  lost  track  of  time.  Off  with  you  now." 

Johnnie  rose,  blinking.  "Maybe  it's  the  last  time 
we  sleeps  here,"  he  said,  rubbing  his  eyes.  "I'm 
glad.  I  want  to  wake  up  with  the  sun  shining  in 
my  face  and  the  ants  crawling  over  me,  comfortable- 
like."  At  the  door  to  the  other  room  he  turned  and 
put  out  his  hand,  touching  the  other  man's  arm. 
"You're  the  finest  pal  a  man  ever  had,  Kansas,"  he 
said,  as  shyly  as  a  girl.  "I  don't  know  what  I'd  do 
if  you  wasn't  about." 

Oddly  enough  a  sudden  flush  came  over  the  man 
Kansas's  face.  "  There,  there,  Johnnie,"  said  he.  "  Get 
along  to  your  bed.  You've  sat  too  late  already.  I'll 
whistle  up  the  dog  to  come  in  and  sleep  with  you 
if  they  haven't  chained  him.  Get  along  to  your  bed." 

He  opened  the  outer  door  of  the  hut  and  whistled 
twice.  Something  stirred  in  the  darkness  near  by,  and 
the  great  Borzoi,  which  had  made  such  a  demonstra- 

235 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

tion  over  the  bent  little  tramp  on  the  occasion  of  his 
first  arrival,  came  into  the  light.  The  animal  slipped 
quickly  past  the  man,  pressing  against  the  door-cas- 
ing, and  disappeared  into  the  inner  room.  The  man 
Kansas  stood  for  a  moment  looking  after  it. 

"I  wonder  why  that  beast  doesn't  like  me?"  he  said, 
aloud.  "Animals  never  does.  I  haven't  got  time  to 
play  with  them.  That's  it,  I  expect.  Johnnie,  he 
can  kick  that  dog  all  over  the  shop,  and  pull  its  ears, 
and  feed  it  pepper,  and  it  still  comes  a-cringing  and 
a-licking  at  his  feet.  If  I  should  hit  at  it  it  'd  eat  me 
alive." 

He  stepped  out  into  the  odorous  darkness  where  the 
cool  night  wind  bore  from  the  gardens,  and  he  turned 
his  face  towards  the  north,  where  the  house  loomed 
black  against  a  starlit  sky.  One  upper  window 
showed  a  gleam  of  yellow  light. 

"Still  awake,"  said  the  man  with  the  hard  blue  eyes. 
"A-plotting  and  a-planning  and  a-thinking,  eh,  and 
a-shivering,  too,  I'll  warrant  —  a-shivering  for  fear. 
Ho,  ho!"  A  sudden  laugh  broke  from  him  in  the 
darkness.  "A-shivering  for  fear,"  he  said  again. 
"Eh,  you'll  shiver  more  afore  we're  done,  me  lady. 
Shiver  and  pay — shiver  and  pay." 

He  stood  for  some  little  time  watching  that  lighted 
upper  window,  and  then  at  last  turned  back  into  the 
hut,  closing  the  door  after  him.  He  pulled  a  chair 
nearer  to  the  table  where  the  lamp  stood  and  made 
himself  comfortable  in  it.  Then  he  took  a  book  from 
the  table,  and,  turning  to  a  certain  page  which  was 
marked  by  a  slip  of  paper,  began  to  read. 

The  book  was  The  Minister's  Wooing,  by  Harriet 
Beecher  Stowe. 


VI 

KANSAS    MEETS    WITH    A   MISADVENTURE 

ON  the  morning  after  this  day?  Faring  came  down 
to  his  breakfast  at  the  usual  hour.  Beatrix  was 
not  in  the  breakfast-room,  but  that  was  not  in  the 
least  surprising,  for  she  was  almost  always  late,  not 
only  at  breakfast  but  at  every  other  occasion.  He 
waited  a  few  minutes,  and  then,  since  she  still  did  not 
appear,  lighted  a  cigarette  and  went  out  upon  the 
garden  porch.  There  was  a  broad  strip  of  turf  be- 
tween the  porch  and  the  first  ranks  of  roses,  and  the 
man  with  the  hard  blue  eyes  was  busy  sprinkling  this 
with  water  from  a  garden  hose.  The  little  gray  tramp 
sat  near,  upon  an  overturned  basket,  busy  with  noth- 
ing. 

Faring  nodded,  and  the  man  with  the  garden  hose 
touched  his  cap  respectfully  and  went  on  with  his 
work.  The  gray  little  tramp  merely  smiled,  a  depre- 
cating, apologetic  smile.  Faring  frowned  towards  the 
man  with  the  hose.  That  odd,  baffling,  half  recollec- 
tion came  again  to  him  and  roused  him  almost  to 
anger.  As  he  had  said  to  Beatrix  on  the  evening  be- 
fore, it  annoyed  him  to  forget  people  or  circumstances, 
for  he  took  a  certain  pride  in  a  memory  which  was 
commonly  accurate  and  unfailing. 

"Somehow,"  he  said  to  himself,  "I  connect  him 
with  something  unpleasant — shady,  or  worse.  And  I 

237 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

don't  like  his  eyes,  either.  He's  a  wrong  'un.  I  must 
get  Betty  to  turn  him  out.  He  looks  quite  capable  of 
thieving  or  anything  of  that  sort." 

Just  then  Mrs.  Paring's  maid  came  out  on  the  porch 
to  say  that  her  mistress  would  not  be  down  to  break- 
fast, and  begged  not  to  be  disturbed  until  lunch-time, 
as  she  wished  to  sleep. 

Faring  said,  "Yes,  yes,  to  be  sure,"  but  he  was 
rather  absurdly  disappointed.  He  had  lain  on  his 
back,  still,  open-eyed,  staring  into  the  dark  and 
dawn  all  the  long  night  through,  thinking,  wonder- 
ing, exulting  over  this  extraordinary  and  unparalleled 
splendor  which  had  come  to  them  to  crown  their  joy, 
and  he  had  said  that  in  the  morning  they  would  talk 
it  over  together,  would  together  rejoice  and  exult  as 
two  souls  of  such  uncommon  intimacy  might  well  do. 
It  seemed  to  his  simple  and  inexperienced  mind  that 
it  was  none  too  early  to  begin  with  plans  and  prepara- 
tions, since  this  glorious  thing  was  manifestly  quite 
outside  previous  human  experience.  But  first  of  all 
he  wanted  to  rejoice,  to  celebrate.  He  wanted  Beatrix 
in  his  arms,  her  face  against  his.  He  wanted  to  tell 
her  a  great  number  of  things  which  he  seemed  sud- 
denly to  have  found  words  for.  He  wanted  to  tell 
her  how  very  wonderful  she  was  and  how  unlike  any 
other  woman  who  had  ever  existed,  and  he  was  bit- 
terly disappointed  to  find  that  he  was  not  to  have  the 
opportunity  until  afternoon. 

He  went  in-doors  very  low  in  his  mind  and  got 
through  a  rather  sketchy  breakfast,  after  which  he 
wandered  gloomily  about  the  house  and  the  garden. 
When  he  finally  looked  at  his  watch,  thinking  it  must 
be  near  noon,  it  was  a  quarter  to  ten.  He  shook  the 
watch  and  called  it  rude  names.  Then  an  inspiration 

238 


A    MISADVENTURE 

came  upon  him.     They  lunched  at  two.     That  left 
something  above  four  hours  to  dispose  of. 

"I'll  go  and  see  Aunt  Arabella  Crowley,"  he  said. 
"Four  hours  —  that's  heaps  of  time.  I  can  reach 
Red  Rose  in  an  hour  and  a  half.  That  '11  give  me  an 
hour  to  spend  there.  Somehow  I  think — I  think 
Aunt  Arabella  'd  be  a  comfort.  You  can  talk  to  her 
exactly  as  if  she  were  a  man." 

He  spoke  to  one  of  the  grooms,  whose  duty  it  was 
upon  occasion  to  act  also  as  chauffeur,  and  the  man 
began  to  pull  the  covering  off  the  big  Mercedes  car. 
Then  Faring  went  to  the  house,  and,  by  a  maid,  sent 
word  up-stairs  that  he  was  going  to  motor  to  Red 
Rose,  but  would  return  for  lunch.  By  the  time  he 
had  found  his  cap  and  goggles  the  Mercedes  was  ready, 
and  in  another  moment  he  was  off. 

Behind  a  closed  upper-story  shutter,  one  white,  with 
burning  eyes  and  clinched  hands,  watched  him  go,  and, 
quite  hopelessly,  prayed  that  death  might  smite  her 
before  his  return. 

Old  Arabella  received  him  with  shrieks  of  joy.  She 
was  quite  alone  at  Red  Rose,  for  Alianor  Trevor  had 
deserted  her  to  hide  a  stricken  heart  somewhere  in 
regions  unknown,  and  the  Tommy  Carterets  were  in 
Europe.  So  she  was  very  tired  of  herself  and  inclined 
greatly  to  underestimate  life  in  general. 

"Thank  God  for  even  you!"  she  said,  piously,  to 
Harry  Faring,  "though  the  same  God  knows  that 
there's  no  bearing  you  in  these  days.  You  and  Beatrix 
are  positively  offensive.  Get  out  of  that  smelly  car  and 
have  it  sent  out  of  my  sight.  Steavens,  the  sort  of  whis- 
key that  Mr.  Faring  likes.  I  think  it's  Irish —  an 
great  deal  of  ice.  And  a  lemon-squash  with  rum  in  it  for 
me.  Look  sharp!  Also,  Mr. Faring  will  stay  for  lunch. 

239 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

"Oh  no,  he  won't,"  said  Faring,  as  he  came  up  the 
steps  of  the  porch.  "He  can't,  really,  Aunt  Arabella. 
He's  got  to  be  back  at  home  for  lunch.  I  came  over 
only  for  an  hour.  Betty  has  shut  herself  up  for  the 
morning,  and  that  left  me  without  occupation.  You 
were  the  most  amusing  thing  I  could  think  of,  so  I 
came  here.  I  killed  nothing  but  a  very  messy  hen  on 
the  way." 

"As  I  have  stated  before,"  said  old  Arabella,  wearily, 
"you  and  Beatrix  are  positively  offensive.  I  have  no 
patience  with  your  billing  and  cooing  and  such.  If 
only  something  would  happen  to  you  to  make  you 
interesting." 

Faring  began  a  little,  uncertain,  excited  laugh,  and 
he  dragged  his  chair  confidentially  nearer. 

"I'm  —  I'm  none  so  sure,  you  know,  Aunt  Ara- 
bella," he  said,  "that  —  that  something  hasn't.  I'm 
none  so  sure,  by  Jove!"  And  with  many  halts  and 
stammerings  and  exclamations  he  told  her  what  he 
thought  he  knew. 

Mrs.  Crowley  was  clamorous  of  astonishment  and 
delight. 

"How  very  clever  of  you  both,  Harry!"  she  said. 
"I'm  sure  I  had  never  thought  of  such  a  possibility. 
Yes,  and  how  very — er — prompt,  so  to  speak.  Almost 
indecent,  I  call  it.  Really,  though,  I'm  frightfully 
pleased.  It's  exceedingly  nice  and  wholesome  and 
old-fashioned.  So  few  people  go  in  for  that  sort  of 
thing  nowadays.  I  can't  think  where  the  next  genera- 
tion is  to  come  from — incubators,  I  dare  say.  Fancy 
that  dear  child  with  a  child  of  her  own!  It's  in- 
credible. She  was  never  very  domestic  by  inclina- 
tion. Of  course  she'll  be  quite  silly  over  it.  They 
always  are.  She  won't  even  notice  whether  you're 

240 


A    MISADVENTURE 

about  the  place  or  not.  You  may  think  she's  fond  of 
you,  but  just  you  wait  a  few  months,  my  lad.  You'll 
be  wanting  to  murder  that  precious  infant  forty  times 
a  day  like  a  tomcat,  or  whatever  wretched  animal  it 
is  that  becomes  jealous  and  eats  its  offspring." 

"Jealous!"  cried  Faring,  with  his  wide  and  imbecile 
smile.  "Not  I,  by  Jove!  Not  I,  Aunt  Arabella. 
Think  of  it,  will  you?  Betty  and  I  with  a  kiddie 
quite  our  own.  By  Jove,  I — I  can't  be  quiet  over  it! 
Just  think  of  it,  will  you?" 

Old  Mrs.  Crowley  betrayed  some  slight  signs  of  be- 
coming bored. 

"Yes,  yes;  quite  so,"  she  said.  "Only  don't  you 
get  into  the  way  of  thinking  that  nobody's  ever  had 
a  baby  before.  Of  course  I  grant  you  that  nobody 
has  ever  had  anything  like  such  an  altogether  magnifi- 
cent baby  as  this  will  be.  Still —  Well,  what  is  it, 
Steavens?" 

"The  telephone,  ma'am,"  said  the  man,  from  the 
doorway. 

"Still,  don't  overexcite yourself  quite  so  early,"  said 
old  Arabella,  getting  heavily  to  her  feet.  "Drink  your 
whiskey  like  a  good  little  man,  and  don't  go  bobbing 
off  among  the  clouds  in  that  absurdly  balloon-like 
fashion.  I  shall  be  back  in  a  moment." 

She  returned  laughing. 

"How  very  pat!"  she  said  into  the  depths  of  her 
lemon-squash.  "It  was  Bdatrix.  No,  no!"  as  Faring 
sprang  to  his  feet.  "No,  I  don't  mean  Beatrix  in 
person.  Just  a  message  that  her  maid  telephoned 
down.  You're  to  stay  here  to  lunch  with  me.  Your 
affectionate  wife  means  to  keep  her  room  all  day  long, 
and  she  doesn't  want  to  be  bothered." 

The  keen,  kindly  old  eyes  saw  a  sudden  gloom 
241 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

darken  the  man's  face,  and  she  put  out  a  protesting 
hand. 

"There,  there,  lad!"  she  said,  in  a  different  tone. 
"Now  don't  you  go  manufacturing  troubles  for  your- 
self. It's  only  a  whim  of  Betty's.  You're  quite  old 
enough  to  know  that  at  times  like  this  a  woman  is  full 
of  incomprehensible  whims — ups  and  downs  and  little 
fits  of  temper.  Humor  her,  my  dear  Harry,  and  take 
nothing  to  heart  except  that  it's  all  perfectly  natural 
and  to  be  expected." 

Faring  laughed  a  little  more  cheerfully,  and  the  old 
woman  nodded  approval. 

"Ah,  that's  better,"  she  said.  "Now,  if  you've 
any  sporting  blood  I  will  make  a  wager  with  you.  I 
will  wager  a  thousand  dollars  that  it's  a  girl.  I  take 
that  end  because,  being  a  man,  you  would,  of  course, 
like  a  son.  A  thousand  dollars  that  Betty  gives  you  a 
daughter.  What  ?" 

"Done!"  said  Faring.     "Done,  by  Jove!" 

And  so,  thanks  to  old  Arabella's  kindly  skill,  the 
two  had  a  very  merry  luncheon  together,  and  sat 
through  the  afternoon  in  the  best  of  spirits.  Faring 
went  away  at  about  five  o'clock,  and  Mrs.  Crowley 
waited  with  him  at  the  porch  steps  while  his  car  was 
being  brought  round  from  the  stables. 

"Now  mind,"  she  said,  in  final  warning,  "you're  to 
ask  Beatrix  when  I  may  come  to  see  her,  but  you're 
not  to  tell  her  that  you've  said  anything  of  all  this  to 
me.  She  might  not  like  it." 

Faring  frowned  anxiously.  "I  expect  I  shouldn't 
have  told,"  he  said,  "but  you  know  I — I  couldn't  keep 
it  in,  somehow.  I  had  to  talk,  Aunt  Arabella.  I 
shouldn't  have  told  anybody  in  the  world  but  you, 
truly,  but  I  had  to  have  it  out.  I'll  tell  her  some- 

242 


A   MISADVENTURE 

time  later  on,  not  now.  Good-bye!  and  —  oh  yes! 
thanks  for  being  so  jolly  patient  with  me.  Good- 
bye!" 

Then,  when  he  had  covered  a  third  of  the  distance 
homeward,  a  chapter  of  accidents  began  to  waylay 
him.  First  it  was  a  bad  tire-puncture,  too  bad  to  be 
repaired  on  the  spot,  and  he  had  to  run  at  a  snail's- 
pace  into  the  nearest  village  and  there  leave  the  car. 
He  spent  three-quarters  of  an  hour  over  this,  and  it 
was  past  six  o'clock.  The  village  was  not  on  the  rail- 
way, but  he  succeeded  in  finding  a  horse  and  a  man 
to  drive  him  the  three  miles  to  the  nearest  station. 
He  could  have  driven  right  home,  but  that  would 
have  meant  two  hours  at  the  least,  and  he  thought 
he  should  manage  it  by  the  rail — there  was  a  change 
necessary  half-way — in  an  hour. 

But  here  again  fate  warred  against  him,  for  some- 
thing happened  on  the  line  ahead  of  the  crawling 
train,  and  he  sat  still  in  fuming  idleness  while  time 
dragged  interminably  past.  It  was  seven  o'clock 
when  he  left  the  train,  and  half  an  hour  later  when 
he  came  through  the  long  lane,  and  reached  the 
house. 

A  servant  told  him  that  Mrs.  Faring  was  in  the 
garden,  and  he  went  there  at  once  without  waiting  to 
dress. 

She  was  among  the  roses.  He  caught  a  glimpse  of 
her  white  evening  frock  while  he  was  yet  far  off. 
There  was  a  certain  rustic  seat  placed  under  what  was 
to  be,  in  God's  good  time,  a  rose  canopy,  and  there 
she  sat,  her  back  towards  the  house,  waiting.  He 
walked  cat-footed,  thinking  to  take  her  by  surprise, 
and  he  was  very  near  before  he  discovered  that  she 
did  not  sit  alone.  At  the  other  end  of  the  rustic  seat 

243 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

was  the  new  gardener's  assistant — the  man  with  the 
blue  eyes. 

Faring  drew  breath  to  speak,  but  at  that  moment 
Beatrix,  wringing  her  hands  together,  said,  sharply: 
"For  God's  sake,  name  your  price  and  have  done! 
I  can  bear  this  no  longer!"  And  he  held  his  breath 
and  stopped  where  he  was,  with  fear  shaking  in 
him. 

The  under-gardener  faced  Mrs.  Faring,  still,  unwink- 
ing, expressionless.  There  was  no  hint  of  insolence 
either  in  his  bearing  or,  when  he  spoke,  in  his  voice. 
His  face,  as  always,  had  an  odd,  dead  look,  as  if  the 
motor  nerves  and  muscles  were  out  of  play. 

"It  might  be  worth  a  great  deal,  ma'am,"  he  said, 
gently. 

"Name  your  price  and  have  done!"  said  Beatrix 
Faring. 

"You  see,  ma'am,"  he  went  on,  unheeding,  still  in 
his  civil,  gentle  tone — "you  see,  it  might  be  worth  a 
very  great  deal;  with  you  married  again  and  living  so 
happy  and  all.  It  wouldn't  ever  do  to  have  ghosts — 
live  ghosts — begging  your  pardon,  ma'am — come  up 
nowadays  and  spoil  everything.  Oh  no,  that  wouldn't 
never  do." 

The  woman  wrung  her  hands  again  silently.  It 
would  seem  that  she  was  beyond  speech  just  then. 
And  as  with  her,  it  would  seem  to  have  been  with 
Harry  Faring.  A  power  not  within  him,  far  beyond 
his  control,  bound  him  hand,  foot,  and  voice.  He 
could  not  stir  or  speak. 

"And  me  and  Johnnie,  ma'am,"  said  the  under- 
gardener,  politely,  "we're  very  poor.  It  would  be  fine 
if  we  was  to  come  by  money  enough  to  keep  us  com- 
fortable for  the  rest  of  our  lives.  Fine  it  would  be!" 

244 


A    MISADVENTURE 

"How  much  do  you  want?  Oh,  how  much  do  you 
want?"  she  said,  in  a  whisper. 

"Why,  I  was  thinking,  ma'am,"  said  the  under- 
gardener,  "of  maybe  ten  thousand  dollars  down  now 
— cash,  of  course — and  then  a  thousand  dollars  every 
quarter,  sent  to  some  good,  safe  place  that  I  might 
name.  If  you  thought  that  was  all  right,  then  Johnnie 
and  me  we'd  go  away  very  quiet,  and  you'd  have  no 
more  trouble,  never.  It's  worth  it,  ma'am — it  really  is." 

A  quiet  of  utter  and  abandoned  despair  seemed  to 
fall  upon  the  woman. 

"And  if  I  refuse?"  she  said. 

"Why,  then,  ma'am,"  said  he,  "I  should  feel  like  I 
would  have  to  blow  the  whole  thing  to  him." 

Faring  saw  his  wife  give  a  sudden  great  shiver  of 
agony,  and  he  strove  madly  to  burst  his  bonds,  but  a 
paralysis  held  him  fast.  He  could  not  stir. 

" Such  a  sum,"  she  said,  "is  out  of  the  question.  I 
could  not  get  together  so  much  money  and — and  no 
one  know.  It  would  be  impossible." 

The  under-gardener  regarded  her  without  emotion. 

"I'm  afraid  you've  got  to,  ma'am,"  said  he.  "I'm 
afraid  there  isn't  any  other  way.  You're  very  rich. 
You  can  do  it,  I  expect.  You  wouldn't  like  to  have 
me  blow  the  game,  would  you,  ma'am?  And  you 
a-living  here  so  happy  and  peaceful!" 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  breathing  hard. 

"It  is  impossible,  I  tell  you!"  she  said.  "Impos- 
sible!" But  the  under-gardener  rose  with  her  and 
moved  a  step  nearer.  His  face  was  still  and  expres- 
sionless, but  a  sort  of  dark  shade  seemed  to  have 
come  up  over  its  pallor. 

"We'll  see  about  that,"  he  said,  in  an  odd,  low  tone. 
"We'll  see  about  that,  ma'am." 

245 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

He  put  out  one  hand  upon  her  arm  as  she  shrank 
before  him,  and,  at  the  touch,  Harry  Paring's  bonds 
were  loosed  from  him  so  suddenly  that  he  almost 
reeled.  He  passed  his  wife  in  two  quick  strides,  and 
as  he  went  he  spoke  to  her  over  his  shoulder.  He  said : 

"Go  into  the  house,  Betty.  Go  into  the  house  at 
once."  Then  he  sprang  silently  at  the  under-gar- 
dener's  throat. 

The  man  had  no  chance.  He  was  taken  quite  off 
his  guard,  and,  moreover,  if  he  was  afraid  of  anything 
in  the  world  he  was  afraid  of  Harry  Faring.  He  gave 
a  quick  little  cry,  and  one  hand  went  towards  his 
pocket;  but  Faring  saw  it  go,  and  struck  the  man 
heavily  under  the  chin.  He  went  over  without  a 
sound. 

Then  Beatrix  screamed  and  caught  at  her  husband's 
arm. 

"Go  back,"  said  Faring,  without  turning  his  head. 
"Go  into  the  house,  Betty,  as  I  told  you!" 

But  she  began  to  sob  and  to  cry  out  upon  him  hys- 
terically. 

"You  mustn't,  Harry!"  she  cried,  stammering. 
"  No,  Harry!  Oh  no,  no!  You  don't  understand. 
Oh,  Harry,  let  him  alone.  Let  him  alone  and  come 
with  me.  I'll  tell  you  everything.  Ah,  no,  no! 
Don't  touch  him  again.  I  tell  you,  you  don't  under- 
stand. Won't  you  listen  to  me ?  Won't  you?"  She 
wept  on,  calling  out  to  him,  pleading  incoherently. 
But  her  husband  did  not  listen;  he  did  not  even 
look  back  at  her.  He  was  watching  the  under- 
gardener,  who  lay  twisting  among  the  broken  roses. 

The  man  got  slowly  to  his  feet.  His  face  was  very 
white  and  it  writhed.  He  did  not  speak,  but  his 
hand  moved  again  unsteadily  towards  one  of  his 

246 


A    MISADVENTURE 

pockets.  Then  Faring  took  him  by  the  throat  and 
shook  him.  He  was  angry,  in  that  still,  danger- 
ous rage  which  comes,  under  great  provocation,  to  a 
certain  type  of  man.  He  shook  the  under-gardener 
as  if  the  man  were  a  little  child,  and  beat  him  with 
his  free  hand  until  his  arms  were  tired.  Then  he 
flung  him  away,  and  the  man  fell  half  across  the 
rustic  seat  and  lay  there  still. 

"And  now,"  he  said,  "you  will  go.  You  will  put 
your  belongings  together — if  you  have  any  belongings 
— and  leave  this  place  within  the  half-hour.  If  you 
are  found  here  at  the  end  of  that  time  the  men  will 
lock  you  up  in  the  stable,  and  I  will  send  for  an  officer 
to  arrest  you."  He  turned  about  to  where  his  wife 
stood  with  her  hands  over  her  face,  and  he  said:  "  Come, 
Betty.  Come  into  the  house." 

She  dropped  her  hands,  facing  him  in  the  gathering 
twilight. 

"You  have  heard,  Harry?"  said  she. 

"Yes,"  he  said.     "Oh  yes." 

"Then,"  said  she,  "I  can  fight  no  longer.  This  is 
the  end  of  everything.  I  have  fought  hard,  Harry." 
She  looked  towards  the  man  who  crouched  before 
them,  lying  across  the  rustic  bench.  "It  makes  no 
difference  what  happens  now,"  she  said,  as  if  to  her- 
self. "This  is  the  end." 

She  turned  away  very  wearily,  and  they  went  up 
through  the  roses  and  into  the  house. 
17 


VII 

TWO    GUILTY    SOULS    TOGETHER 

THEY  went  through  the  long  dining-room  heedless 
of  the  table  spread  and  laid  for  dinner,  heedless 
of  the  servants  who  stared  at  them  and  at  each  other, 
agape  with  curiosity,  and  they  went  at  once  without 
question  or  hesitation  up  to  Beatrix's  own  room. 

The  last  of  the  day  came  in  through  the  row  of 
westward  windows  and  filled  the  place  with  a  soft 
glow  which  was  neither  light  nor  darkness — an  odorous, 
fragrant  twilight  out  of  which  deep  shadows  grew  and 
gloomed  towards  the  far  corners. 

The  woman  moved  towards  an  open  window  and 
stood  there  for  a  moment,  staring  out  into  the  golden 
west.  Oddly,  one  of  her  strange,  little,  whimsical 
fancies  came  upon  her.  She  nodded  to  the  splendid 
sky. 

"It  was  only  a  cloud,"  she  said.  "After  all,  our 
throne  was  only  a  cloud.  I  might  have  known."  She 
turned  and  faced  her  husband.  "I  do  not  know  how 
much  you  heard,  Harry,"  she  said,  quite  without  emo- 
tion. "Enough,  anyhow,  so  that  you  must  hear  it 
all  now.  That  little,  gray,  mad  tramp  who  is  dying 
of  consumption  is  Herbert  Buchanan.  Herbert  Bu- 
chanan is  still  living." 

Faring  put  out  a  hand  quickly  and  held  himself  by 
a  chair. 

248 


TWO    GUILTY    SOULS    TOGETHER 

"Say  it  again,  please,"  he  asked. 

"Herbert  Buchanan  is  still  alive,"  she  said,  pa- 
tiently. "That  little  tramp  who  cannot  remember, 
is  he.  He  is  dying  of  consumption,  but  he  is  still 
alive." 

Faring  raised  his  hand  a  little  way  from  the  chair- 
back  and  made  as  if  he  would  speak,  but  his  lips  only 
whispered  incoherently. 

The  woman  took  a  quick  breath.  "I  don't  want 
you  to  misunderstand,"  she  said.  "I  don't  wish  you 
to  be — to  be  sorry  for  me — to  think  that  I  deserve 
pity,  or — I  want  to  put  you  right  at  the  beginning. 
It  is  all  due  to  me  —  what  we  have  —  what  has  been 
done.  When  I  came  home  from  Paris,  when  I  saw 
that  body  which  you  thought  was  Herbert's,  I  knew  it 
was  not  he.  I  lied  deliberately." 

"Betty!"  cried  the  man,  shaking.     "Betty!" 

"Yes,  I  lied,"  she  said.  "I  wanted  our  happiness. 
I  wanted  your  happiness,  Harry.  Of  course  you  will 
not  believe  me  —  no  one  would;  but  it  was  that  I 
thought  of  first  and  last  and  through  it  all,  your  happi- 
ness. I  wanted  to  make  your  life  beautiful  because  I 
loved  you,  and  I  had  never  brought  you  anything  but 
suffering. 

"I  was  sure  that  he  was  dead,"  she  cried,  and  for 
the  first  time  her  voice  began  to  show  the  strain  under 
which  she  wrought.  "Something  inside  me  said  so 
day  and  night.  I  was  absolutely  convinced  of  it.  I 
was  as  sure  as  I  was  that  he  had  deliberately  gone 
away  of  his  own  accord  that  dreadful  night.  I  was 
right  about  that,  too.  He  did  go  of  his  own  accord. 
I  tell  you  I  knew  that  he  was  dead,  but  I  had  to  have 
proof  or  I  could  not  marry  you.  So  I — the  chance 
came — a  miraculous  chance — an  unbelievable  chance 

249 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

— and  I  took  it  and  tricked  you.     It  seemed  the  only 
way. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  "I  cannot  make  you  understand 
how  sure  I  was  of  his  death.  I  thought  it  was  God 
telling  me  in  His  own  way  so  that  I  might  be  happy. 
Maybe  it  was.  Maybe  He  did  it  so  that  He  could 
laugh  at  me  later  as  He  has  done.  And  so  now, 
Harry,  you  know  what  I  am — how  unspeakably  low  I 
have  grovelled.  I  tried  to  make  you  happy.  I  tried 
to  steal  happiness  for  us  both,  and,  instead,  I  have 
utterly  wrecked  us.  Cast  me  off,  Harry,  and  have 
done  with  me.  There  is  nothing  else  for  you  to  do." 

"Wait!  Wait!"  he  said,  covering  his  face.  "Wait! 
Let  me  think.  Give  me  a  moment  to  think.  I  don't 
— I  can't  think  connectedly.  Give  me  a  moment." 
He  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room,  his  hands 
clasping  and  unclasping  behind  him  in  a  way  he  had. 
And  the  woman,  standing  by  her  window,  watched 
him  in  a  sort  of  apathy.  A  great  surge  of  love  and  of 
passionate  tenderness  rose  in  her  with  an  unbearable 
longing  to  soothe  and  comfort  and  protect,  but  her 
brain  answered  to  it  coldly,  as  if  from  an  unfathomable 
distance.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  dead  and 
watching  the  sufferings  of  a  man  whom,  alive,  she  had 
loved.  The  passion  of  the  living  woman  came  very 
faintly  to  her  like  songs  heard  from  far  away.  The 
living  woman  she  thought  must  be  sorely  rent  and 
tortured  to  see  her  man  so  in  agony,  but  for  herself 
she  was  beyond  pain — beyond  all  feeling  save  a  thin, 
faint  pity  that  life  should  be  a  thing  so  bitter. 

Faring  halted  in  his  walk,  and  dropped  into  a 
near-by  chair.  He  sat  down,  steadying  himself  by 
the  arms  of  the  chair,  as  if  he  were  very  tired  or  weak. 
And  he  made  a  little,  pointing  gesture. 

250 


TWO    GUILTY    SOULS   TOGETHER 

"Please  go  on,"  he  said.  "And  won't  you  sit 
down  ?"  There  was  nothing  to  be  told  from  his  tone, 
and,  as  he  sat,  his  face  was  in  shadow,  so  that  told 
nothing  either. 

"No,"  said  the  woman.  "I  would  rather  stand, 
thank  you.  And  there's  not  very  much  more  to  say, 
is  there?"  she  said.  "You  know  it  all  now,  really. 
The  rest  is  only  filling  in.  I  have  lied  and  cheated 
and  tricked  you.  I  have  wrecked  your  life.  There 
is  nothing  more  to  be  said.  The  fact  that  I  did  it  in 
the  hope  of  making  you  happy  is  worth  nothing  now. 
What  I  tried  to  do  I  failed  in.  So  the  motive  is 
worth  nothing."  A  sudden  fit  of  dry  sobbing  clutched 
her.  "  Oh,  Harry,  Harry!"  she  cried  out.  "  I  did  it  for 
love's  sake.  Can't  you  see  that  I  did  it  for  love's 
sake?  I  had  been  so  starved  of  love  all  my  life,  and 
you  had,  too.  I  wanted  happiness  for  you  and  me  so. 
I  so  longed  for  it,  ached  for  it!  And  then — then  when 
that  telegram  came — when  I  thought  that  Herbert's 
body  had  been  found,  I  was—  Ah,  I  cannot  speak  of 
that.  The  temptation  was  so  cruelly  strong.  That 
very  scar,  Harry,  that  they  made  so  much  of.  Her- 
bert did  have  a  scar  on  the  inside  of  his  arm— the 
same  arm,  but  it  was  a  different  sort,  quite  different. 
I  made  up  my  mind  all  at  once  in  the  few  minutes 
when  they  left  me  alone  with  that  wretched  unknown 
body.  My  hopes  had  been  so  high— so  heavenly  high! 
I  wasn't  strong  enough  to  give  them  up  and  gob 
to  the  old,  interminable  waiting.  Often  I've  t 
that  there  was  something  weak  in  me,  that  my  sens 
of  right  and  wrong  was  muddled  somehow, 
laughed,  but  it  was  true  — oh,  very  true!  Do  yot 
want  to  know  how  true?  Listen,  then, 
this  to  live  through  again  I  should  do  it  over  agai 

251 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

just  as  I've  done  it.  I  should  take  the  same  frightful 
risks  for  the  same  great  gain  or  loss.  I  expect  I'm 
very,  very  wicked.  Oh  yes,  of  course  I'm  that;  but 
I'd  do  it.  I'm  not  even  sorry  that  I  did  it,  though  I 
would  very  willingly  die  by  torture  to  save  you  one 
little  moment  of  the  pain  you  are  suffering  now.  I'm 
as  vile  a  thing  as  you  like,  my  dear,  but  I've  loved 
you  more  deeply  than  any  other  woman  ever  loved 
any  one,  I  think." 

For  a  moment  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands, 
but  the  man  in  his  shadows  did  not  move  or  speak. 

"What  more?"  she  said,  after  a  moment,  very 
wearily.  "Oh  yes.  Then  the  other  day  you  went 
away,  and  within  an  hour  he  came  shambling  in 
through  the  lane.  I  knew  him  almost  at  once.  At 
first  it  seemed  simplest  and  best  that  I  should  kill  my- 
self, but  there  was  a  chance  that  I  might  be  able  to 
keep  the  truth  from  you,  and  so  long  as  there  was  the 
littlest  chance  I  was  determined  to  fight.  It  was  the 
other  man  who  wrecked  me,  the  one  you  nearly  killed 
a  little  while  ago.  Somehow  he  knows,  I  don't  know 
just  how.  Perhaps  he  knew  Herbert  before  Herbert 
had  the  illness  or  accident  that  left  him  what  he  is 
now.  Anyhow,  the  man  knows.  He  was  trying  to 
get  money  from  me  as  the  price  of  his  silence  when 
you  came  upon  us  a  half -hour  ago.  And  that  is  truly 
all.  I  cannot  go  into  greater  detail  now.  Don't  ask 
me,  please."  The  fit  of  sobbing  threatened  again  to 
seize  her,  but  she  crushed  it  back.  She  pressed  her 
hands  very  hard  over  her  breast  as  if  something  hurt 
her  there.  Then  she  turned  to  the  man  who  sat  still 
in  his  shadows,  and  took  a  step  nearer. 

"And  now,  Harry,  it  is  all  over  and  done  with,"  she 
said,  and  she  managed  a  little  white  smile.  "I've 

252 


TWO    GUILTY    SOULS   TOGETHER 

fought  hard — oh,  harder  than  you  will  ever  know! 

and  I've  lost,  absolutely,  disastrously.  I  know  only 
too  well  what  you  think  of  such  things  as  I  have  done. 
I  know  only  too  well  how  high  you  set  honor  and 
truth  over  everything  else.  Curse  me,  Harry,  for 
wrecking  your  life.  Tell  me,  if  you  wish,  how  vile 
and  contemptible  I  am  in  your  eyes  and  then  I  will 
go.  Only  —  only  —  oh,  Harry,  do  it  quickly!  Be 
quick,  for  I  cannot  bear  much  more  than  I  have 
borne.  I  shall  break  down  in  a  moment.  Be  quick, 
Harry!  quick,  quick!"  She  began  to  shake,  and  she 
swayed  a  little  on  her  feet. 

The  light  out  of  the  western  sky  was  by  this  time 
almost  gone,  and  the  shadows  were  darkening  to 
gloom.  Out  of  them  she  heard  Faring  stir  in  his 
chair,  stir  and  draw  a  great,  deep  breath.  Quite  sud- 
denly he  rose  before  her.  She  could  not  see  his  face, 
but  he  moved  forward.  Then  he  put  out  the  arms 
which  had  for  three  months  bounded  her  world  and 
his,  and  took  her  into  them.  She  gave  a  little,  sharp 
cry,  which  she  thought  was  a  scream,  and  she  knew 
that  he  had  forgotten  how  strong  he  was  and  was 
hurting  her.  Then  for  an  unmeasured  space  she 
knew  nothing  more,  because  she  had  fainted  quite 
away,  and  was  hanging  lax  and  heavy  against  Far- 
ing's  breast  where  she  had  thought  never  to  lie 
again. 

Long  afterwards,  when  she  had  come  to  her  senses, 
the  two  clung  together  in  the  dark,  and  Beatrix  wept, 
weakly,  easily,  like  a  little  child. 

"It  is  impossible,  impossible,"  she  said.  'Oh, 
Harry,  I  am  mad  or  you  are  mad,  or  this  is  not  real  at 
all.  Think  what  I  have  done.  Think!  I  have  ut- 
terly ruined  your  life  and  mine — ruined  it  hideously, 

253 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

yet  you  hold  me  in  your  arms.  One  of  us  is  mad,  or 
both." 

"Both,  if  you  like,"  said  he.  "I  do  not  know.  I 
know  only  that  I  can't  seem  to  care.  What  you  did, 
Betty,  you  did  for  love's  sake.  Maybe  we  are  wrecked 
—  ruined.  Oh  yes,  I  suppose  so.  But  in  any  case 
we're  wrecked  together,  and  I  can't  seem  to  care  very 
much  what  happens  so  long  as  it  leaves  you  and  me 
together.  Maybe  I've  something  the  matter  with  my 
morals,  too,  as  you  say  you  have." 

"  'Together!' "  said  the  woman,  in  a  whisper,  and,  as 
they  sat  in  the  gloom,  pushed  herself  a  little  apart 
from  him  with  her  two  hands.  "'Together,'  Harry! 
Why,  you  —  you  don't  realize.  He's  alive.  Herbert 
Buchanan  is  alive  I  He's  my — husband."  She  began 
to  shiver  again. 

"I  don't  care,"  said  Faring,  stubbornly,  "if  you 
have  forty  husbands  alive.  I  won't  give  you  up.  I 
won't  go  away  from  you,  and  if  you  should  try  to  go 
away  from  me  I'd  lock  you  up  and  keep  the  key.  I 
won't  lose  you  now.  I  can't." 

She  gave  a  great  cry. 

"Oh,  Harry,  Harry!"  she  said,  "do  you  mean  that? 
Do  you  truly  mean  that  ?  You'd  stick  by  me  in  spite 
of  everything?  You  wouldn't  cast  me  off  now  that 
you  know  what  I've  done?" 

"Try  to  leave  me  and  see,"  said  the  man,  and  at 
the  little  note  of  fierceness  in  his  tone  she  cried  out 
again  and  pressed  closer  to  him  in  the  dark.  He 
drew  her  up  until  her  face  lay  in  the  hollow  of  his 
throat  as  they  had  used  to  sit. 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  said  he,  "shall  you  be  the  only  one 
whose  love  is  great  enough  to  override  law?  Shall 
you  shame  me  by  loving  the  more? — Law,  principle, 

254 


TWO    GUILTY   SOULS   TOGETHER 

honor?  I  cannot  make  their  call  ring  very  loudly. 
Love's  so  much  the  bigger  thing.  In  the  beginning, 
perhaps.  I  don't  know.  Now  we've  gone  much  too 
far  to  give  each  other  up  for  any  earthly  reason  or 
scruple.  Neither  of  us  could  live,  I  think,  without 
the  other." 

"It's  horribly,  hideously  wrong,"  she  said. 

"Oh  yes,"  said  he,  "it's  wrong.  7  know,  but  it's 
inevitable.  We  can't  stop  now.  We're  two  guilty 
souls,  Betty,  clinging  together  in  the  dark,  but  cling 
together  we  must  for  all  time,  whatever  comes." 

After  a  little  spell  of  silence.  "Ah,  now,  Harry," 
said  she,  very  sadly,  "now  I  have  come  to  the  lowest 
depths  of  my  abasement.  Now  I  am  prostrate,  in- 
deed, to  have  brought  you  to  this — to  have  made  you 
what  I  am.  If  only  you  had  cast  me  off,  if  you  had 
cursed  me  and  gone  away  I  should  have  taken  some 
small,  miserable  comfort  for  that  at  least  I  had  not 
soiled  you.  I  should  have  wrecked  your  happiness, 
but  never  your  soul.  Oh,  now  I  am  indeed  pros- 
trate!" 

He  fell  to  soothing  her,  whispering  to  her,  his  lips 
against  her  face. 

"Never  say  that,  Betty,"  he  pleaded.  "Oh,  never 
say  that!  How  comfortable  should  I  be  sitting  apart 
on  my  cold  height  of  self-righteousness  while  you  wept 
in  the  shadows.  A  fine,  generous,  noble  figure  I'd  be! 
Oh,  my  dear,  if  there's  a  just  and  pitiful  God  aloft 
yonder,  as  the  books  say,  what  would  He  have  me  do, 
do  you  think?  In  what  regard  would  He  hold  a  man 
who,  having  very  solemnly  sworn  to  cherish  and  love 
and  protect  a  certain  woman  for  as  long  as  they  two 
might  live,  should  cast  her  off,  holding  his  skirts  aside, 
just  because,  for  love's  sake — for  his  sake— in  a  pas- 

255 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

sionate  striving  for  his  happiness,  she  had  broken  cer- 
tain laws?  Oh,  my  very  dear,  if  there's  a  God  who 
holds  by  faithfulness  and  constancy  and  the  love  of  a 
man  for  the  woman  who  loves  him,  He  won't  be  very 
hard  on  my  soul.  And  if  the  God  we're  told  about 
isn't  that  sort  of  a  God,  I  don't  want  any  dealings 
with  Him  at  all.  I'll  go  it  alone.  So,  Betty,  don't 
feel  low  because  I'm  not  a  deserter  and  a  blackguard." 

Then,  after  they  had  been  a  long  time  silent,  he 
said,  bending  his  head  over  her  as  she  lay  in  his 
arms: 

"Betty!" 

"Yes,"  said  she. 

"Betty,"  he  said,  "what  do  you  suppose  Adam  said 
to  Eve  when  they'd  been  driven  out  of  the  Garden 
and  were  sitting  together  like  this,  thinking  it  over?" 

She  gave  a  little,  shaking,  uncertain  laugh  in  the 
dark,  and  she  said: 

"I  expect  he  said,  'Now  you've  been  and  done  it — 
just  like  a  woman! — and  it  can't  be  undone,  and  so 
we'll — we'll  just  have  to  stick  together  and  patch  up 
some  sort  of  a  life  the  best  we  can.'  That's  what  he 
said,  I  expect." 

"Yes,"  said  Faring,  drawing  her  closer — "yes,  I  ex- 
pect that  will  be  just  what  he  said." 

And  again  they  were  silent  for  a  long  time,  so  long 
that  Beatrix,  overwrought,  overstrained,  worn  out  to 
the  point  of  physical  exhaustion,  went  off  into  a  sort 
of  doze  and  lay  heavily  still  in  the  man's  arms.  She 
awoke  from  this  with  a  violent  start  and  a  cry. 

"I  thought  he  was  trying  to  take  me  away  from 
you,  Harry,"  she  said,  shivering.  "I  thought  he  had 
come  for  me." 

"Hush,  dear!"  said  Faring.  "Neither  he  nor  any 
256 


TWO    GUILTY    SOULS   TOGETHER 

one  can  take  you  away  from  me.     We're  together  for 
all  time,  whatever  may  happen  to  us." 

Then  presently  she  sat  up  with  a  deep  breath. 

"We  must  look  to  the  future,"  she  said.  "We  must 
talk  of  what  is  to  become  of  us.  Is  there  still  any 
way,  Harry,  in  which  we  may  be  saved  ?  I  mean  out- 
wardly saved.  Where  we  stand  in  our  own  eyes  we 
know  and  we  shall  always  know.  Day  and  night  it 
will  be  before  us.  Oh,  we  shall  pay,  dearest,  we  shall 
pay  in  full  measure.  But  for  our  friends'  sakes  and 
for  many  reasons  we  must  prevent  this  thing  from 
being  known  if  we  possibly  can.  What  is  to  be  done  ?" 

"I  have  been  thinking,"  Faring  said,  "while  you 
were  still  and  asleep.  I  expect  I  must,  after  all,  stop 
that  man  who  knows  from  going  away.  He  won't 
have  gone  yet,  I  am  sure.  He'll  have  waited  for  a 
last  appeal,  a  last  threat,  maybe.  I  must  stop  him 
and  make  some  sort  of  bargain  with  him.  After  all,  it 
will  not  be  for  long.  The  other— the  little  tramp" 
— he  could  not  bring  himself  to  say  "Herbert  Bu- 
chanan"— "cannot  live  for  a  year,  I  should  think. 
He  is  far  gone  already.  Once  he  is — dead — the  other 
man's  hold  upon  us  is  gone.  Of  course  he  knows 
that." 

He  kissed  her  and  put  her  from  him,  and  rose  to  his 
feet.  He  struck  a  match  and  made  two  or  three 
lights  in  the  room. 

"It  is  half-past  nine,"  he  said,  looking  at  his  watch. 
"I  must  go  down  at  once.  Shall  I  send  your  maid? 
You  must  have  something  to  eat.  We've  had  no 
dinner,  either  of  us." 

She  shook  her  head.     "  I'll  wait  here,"  said  she. 
don't  wish  anything  to  eat — not  now.     I  must  know 
first.     Go  at  once,  Harry.     I'll  wait  here  for  you." 

257 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

He  went  out  of  the  room,  and  the  woman  sat  where 
he  had  left  her,  silent  and  still,  her  chin  in  the  palm 
of  her  hand,  her  eyes  glooming  across  the  room  towards 
the  shadows  which  hung  there. 

In  ten  minutes  he  was  back,  and  by  the  look  on  his 
face  she  knew. 

"He  is  gone?"  she  said,  in  a  whisper. 

"Both  of  them,"  said  the  man.  "Clean  gone,  with- 
out trace.  No  one  saw  them  go." 

Beatrix  sprang  to  her  feet  and  came  to  meet  him, 
catching  at  his  arms.  The  old  terror,  the  old  panic 
clamored  from  her  eyes. 

"You  must  find  him,  Harry!"  she  cried,  and  shook 
the  arm  her  hands  clung  to.  "Oh,  you  must  find  him 
and  bring  him  back!  While  that  man  is  abroad  we 
hang  upon  a  razor's  edge.  He  would  do  anything. 
Have  you  seen  his  face,  his  eyes?  Anything!  You 
must  find  him." 

Faring  wakened  suddenly  from  something  trance- 
like.  "Yes,"  he  said,  gently,  "I  must  find  him.  He 
must  not  be  left  at  large.  I  will  go  at  once."  He 
freed  himself  and  moved  towards  the  door.  Then  he 
paused  and  came  back.  He  took  her  into  his  arms 
and  kissed  her  mouth.  "The  grooms  are  out  now 
searching  the  neighborhood,"  he  said,  "but  I  do  not 
think  they  will  be  successful.  The  man  is  clever.  I 
may  be  away  for  some  days.  I  shall  not  come  back 
until  we  are  safe." 

"Oh,  Harry!  Harry!"  she  said,  under  her  breath. 

"I  think  I  should  send  for  Aunt  Arabella  Crowley 
if  I  were  you,"  he  said.  "She  would  like  to  come, 
and  she  will  bear  you  company.  You  can  say  that  I 
am  in  New  York  on  affairs  of  importance." 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "Yes.  Perhaps  I  will  do  that. 
258 


TWO    GUILTY    SOULS   TOGETHER 

Oh,   Harry,  be  careful!     Do  not  take  risks.     He  is 
very  desperate,  that  man,  and,  I  think,  dangerous." 

Faring  shook  his  head.  "He  wants  money,  not 
blood,"  said  he.  "He  is  not  dangerous.  I  rather 
wish  he  were." 

Then  after  a  little  more  he  was  gone,  and  she  heard 
him  speaking  to  his  man  in  the  hallway  outside  her 
door.  Presently  the  voice  was  gone  also,  and  she  was 
left  alone. 

She  stood  where  he  had  left  her  for  some  little  time. 
Afterwards  she  moved  slowly  about  the  room  putting 
things  needlessly  to  rights  here  and  there.  She  did 
not  in  the  least  heed  what  she  was  doing.  Her  head 
ached  dully,  and  she  put  out  the  lights,  thinking  that 
they  hurt  her  eyes.  A  silver  flood  of  moonlight 
slanted  in  through  the  westward  windows  and  lay  in 
four  great,  oblong  patches  on  the  floor.  They  looked 
oddly  like  four  white  coffins,  and  the  woman  stared  at 
them  for  a  long  time  very  thoughtfully. 

" Four  coffins!"  she  said,  aloud.  " For  whom,  then  ? 
One  for  Stambolof.  He's  dead  and  at  peace,  as  he 
longed  to  be.  And  one  for  Herbert  Buchanan.  He'll 
need  it  soon.  How  soon,  I  wonder?  Two  left.  One 
for  Harry  and  one  for  me." 

She  tried  to  imagine  what  it  would  be  like  to  lie  i 
a  coffin  quite  still  forever,  with  fading  flowers  at  her 
breast  and  her  hands  crossed.     It  seemed  to  her  vei 
peaceful  and  pleasant,  and  she  wished  that  she  wer 
already  there,  for  she  was  desperately  tired. 

"I  am  tired  of  everything,"  she  said  again,  alo 
"It  would  be  very  nice  to  rest  forever,  never  to  h 
to  speak  again,  never  to  fight  and  struggle  and 
against  odds  for  a  little  happiness.     It  is  s 
trouble  to  live." 

259 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

Her  knees  trembled  under  her  a  little  with  sheer 
fatigue,  and  she  sank  down  upon  the  floor  beside  the 
bed  and  rested  her  face  against  its  white  covering. 

Passion,  tenderness,  hope,  all  the  varied  interests  of 
life  are  as  impossible  to  an  exhausted  body  as  fear  is. 
In  such  a  state  thought  itself  is  wellnigh  suspended. 

"I  am  very,  very  tired,"  Beatrix  said.  "I  do  not 
think  I  care  very  much  about  anything." 

The  quest  upon  which  Harry  Faring  had  gone  slipped 
faintly  across  her  mind,  but  it  came  from  far  away.  It 
could  not  stir  her. 

"He — won't — come  back,"  she  said,  with  pauses  be- 
tween the  words.  "Harry's  gone — and  he  won't  come 
— back.  Poor  Harry!  Four  coffins!"  she  said,  her  eyes 
upon  those  four  long  patches  of  moonlight.  "One  for 
Stambolof  and  —  one  for  Herbert  Buchanan.  That's 
two.  And  one  for  Harry  who  won't  come  back.  And 
one — for  me.  I  think — I'd  like  to  get  into  mine  now, 
and — go  to  sleep." 


VIII 

THE  LAST  MOVE  IN  THE  GAME 

NEAR  a  certain  ancient  and  long  -  deserted  stone 
quarry  —  of  which  mention  has  already  been 
made  in  the  course  of  this  chronicle  —  just  where  a 
broad  reach  of  moorland  up -sweeping  from  the  sea 
meets  the  flank  of  a  wood  of  firs,  there  is  a  one-roomed 
hut,  deserted  like  the  quarry,  half  in  ruins,  half  over- 
grown with  vegetation.  Here,  stretched,  in  lieu  of  a 
bed,  upon  a  door  upheld  by  two  low  trestles,  little 
Johnnie  lay  coughing  his  life  away,  and  the  man 
Kansas  watched  beside  him.  On  the  other  side 
watched  also  that  Russian  dog  whose  faithfulness 
neither  kicks  nor  tormentings  nor  applications  of  pep- 
per could  overcome.  It  was  the  fourth  night  of  their 
stay  in  the  deserted  hut,  and  it  bade  fair  to  be  the 
last,  for  little  Johnnie  was  very  low  indeed,  far  too 
weak  to  stand,  and  patently  near  the  end  of  all  things 
earthly. 

From  time  to  time  a  feeble  paroxysm  of  coughing 
shook  him,  and  after  each  of  these  paroxysms  he  lay 
like  one  dead,  almost  too  far  gone  to  gasp  for  the 
breath  his  racked  lungs  so  sorely  needed.  From  time 
to  time,  also,  the  other  man  bent  over  him  and  wiped 
his  lips  with  a  torn  rag  of  pocket  handkerchief.  Each 
time  he  did  this  the  Russian  hound  emitted  a  low 
growl  of  jealous  disfavor,  and  pressed  his  cold  nose 

261 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

against  the  hand  which  lay  twitching  by  the  sick 
man's  side. 

"How  is  it,  Johnnie  lad?"  asked  the  man  Kansas 
for  the  fiftieth  time  that  night,  and  bent  down  to  hear 
the  whispered  reply. 

"I'm  cold,"  said  the  little  tramp.  "My  feet  is  cold, 
and  my  hands,  too.  I'm  cold  all  over."  This  also 
for  the  fiftieth  time  that  night. 

The  man  Kansas  turned  away,  and  for  an  instant 
that  still  face  of  his  worked  oddly  in  the  lantern-light. 
"I  wish  we  could  make  you  warm,  Johnnie  lad,"  he 
said.  "I  wish  we  dared  to  make  a  fire.  If  I  was 
sure  there  wasn't  nobody  about." 

He  moved  across  the  room,  and  the  eyes  of  the  sick 
man  followed  him  weakly.  He  pulled  the  door  open 
and  stepped  out  into  the  night,  closing  the  door  be- 
hind him.  It  was  coming  on  to  rain.  A  fresh,  warm 
wind  came  surging  up  from  the  sea,  and  it  bore  a  rack 
of  cloud  before  it.  There  was  a  moon  in  its  wane ;  the 
silvery  light  came  down  in  sudden  splashes  through 
that  scud  of  flying  cloud.  The  night  bade  fair  to  be 
very  like  a  certain  other  night  on  this  same  moor,  a 
night  which  the  man  who  stood  staring  into  the  west 
had  reason  to  remember.  He  did  remember  it,  and 
he  shivered.  He  stood  for  some  time  looking  across 
the  wind-swept  land.  He  had  the  air  of  being  deep 
in  reflection.  Then  he  turned  and  went  back  into  the 
hut.  As  he  went  the  first  rain-drop  struck  his  face 
sharply  and  he  shivered  again. 

"We're  going  to  have  a  fire,  Johnnie,"  he  said. 
"There  won't  be  nobody  about  on  a  night  like  this. 
We're  going  to  have  a  fire  and  warm  ourselves." 

There  was  a  litter  of  broken  shutters  and  odd  bits  of 
wood  in  one  corner  of  the  room.  He  took  up  an  arm- 

262 


THE    LAST    MOVE    IN    THE   GAME 

ful  of  fragments  and  piled  them  skilfully  in  the  rough 
stone  fireplace.  They  burned  well  because  they  were 
old  and  dry.  In  the  space  of  two  minutes  a  great  fire 
was  leaping  and  roaring,  and  its  hot  glow  was  reach- 
ing to  the  farthest  corner  of  the  already  warm  little 
hut. 

The  sick  man  turned  on  his  side  so  that  he  faced 
the  flames,  and  he  stretched  out  one  clawlike  hand 
towards  them  gratefully. 

"Eh,  that's  good!"  he  said,  in  a  whisper.  "That's 
good,  Kansas.  I'm  agoing  to  feel  better  now.  That's 
just  like  lying  in  the  sun.  I  can  awmost  hear  the  bees 
a-buzzing  and  those  silly  little  crickets  a-cheeping 
away.  That's  most  remarkable  warm  and  fine." 

The  other  man  nodded,  smiling  cheerily  down  at 
him,  and  fetched  more  wood  which  he  laid  beside  the 
hearth.  He  made  a  round  of  the  windows,  assuring 
himself  that  the  heavy  gunny-sack  which  he  had 
fastened  over  each  was  well  in  place  and  allowed  no 
light  to  penetrate,  then  he  came  back  to  the  fire  and 
seated  himself  there  upon  a  broken  box  within  arm's- 
reach  of  the  sick  man.  The  Russian  hound  had  crept 
closer  to  the  other  side  of  the  hearth,  and  lay  still,  his 
muzzle  between  his  paws. 

Little  Johnnie  coughed  once  or  twice,  but  the  fire 
had  warmed  the  ache  of  cold  out  of  his  limbs,  and  he 
fell  into  a  doze,  breathing  stertorously.  Also,  after  a 
time,  the  man  who  watched  began  to  nod.  He  had 
been  without  sleep  for  three  days,  and  almost  without 
food.  But  he  was  a  strong  man,  inured  to  hardship, 
and  so  there  must  have  been  some  further,  supple- 
mentary reason  why  his  face  had  gone  so  white  and 
drawn  and  haggard,  and  why  he  swayed  on  his  fi 
when  he  walked.  He  moved  and  looked  like  a  man 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

exhausted.  He  nodded  in  the  warm  glow  of  the  fire, 
and  recovered  himself,  and  nodded  again.  Presently 
all  three,  the  two  men  and  the  Russian  dog,  were 
asleep,  while  the  fire  crackled  and  hissed  on  its  stone 
hearth  and  the  rain  pattered  gently  on  the  roof. 

There  came  a  scratching  at  the  door.  The  two  men 
slept  on,  but  the  Russian  hound,  quick-eared  after  his 
kind,  raised  his  head  to  listen.  The  scratching  came 
again,  and  the  dog  rose  silently  to  his  feet  and  moved 
into  the  centre  of  the  room.  After  a  moment  he 
growled.  At  that  the  man  who  sat  asleep  beside  the 
hearth  started  up,  blinking  and  rubbing  his  eyes. 

"Did  you  speak,  Johnnie?"  he  asked.  Then  he  saw 
the  dog  standing  with  nose  out -stretched,  and  his 
brows  came  down  in  an  alert  little  frown.  He  took 
into  his  hand  something  which  had  lain  across  his 
knees,  and  rose  to  his  feet. 

The  scratching  came  again  at  the  door  and  the  Rus- 
sian dog  barked. 

"Shut  up,  you  fool!"  said  the  man  Kansas,  and 
stood  considering. 

"It's  one  of  the  other  dogs  that's  tracked  us  here," 
he  said,  at  last.  "If  it  was  men  they  wouldn't  come 
a-scratching  at  the  door;  they'd  break  it  in." 

He  waited  a  few  moments.  There  came  no  more 
sounds.  Then,  walking  on  tiptoe,  he  went  to  the 
door  and  opened  it.  A  gust  of  wind  and  fine  rain 
beat  into  his  face,  but  in  the  wet  gloom  he  could  see 
nothing.  He  took  a  step  forward,  holding  the  pistol 
well  before  him,  and  stood  listening.  Once  he  gave  a 
low  whistle,  but  nothing  stirred  or  answered.  He  said: 
"Where's  that  damn  dog?"  And  out  of  the  dark- 
ness, to  one  side  of  the  doorway,  something  sudden 
and  swift  struck  the  out-stretched  hand  which  held  the 

264 


THE    LAST    MOVE    IN    THE   GAME 

pistol.  The  weapon  fell,  clattering,  and  the  man 
Kansas  staggered  back  into  the  lighted  room  cursing 
aloud.  One  entered  from  the  night  and  closed  the 
door  behind  him.  The  Russian  hound  gave  a  little, 
pleased  whine  and  licked  the  new-comer's  free  hand. 
The  other  hand  was  engaged. 

"A  little  farther  away,  please,"  said  Faring  to  the 
man,  who  stood  nursing  his  bruised  wrist.  "Right 
across  the  room  by  the  hearth.  Thank  you.  Yes, 
you  may  sit  down."  Suddenly  his  eyes  fell  upon  the 
sleeping  figure  stretched  before  the  fire  on  its  im- 
provised bed,  and  he  started  forward  with  an  ex- 
clamation. He  said:  " He's  not  dead ?  Not  dead?" 

The  sick  man  stirred  in  his  sleep,  the  stertorous 
breathing  became  for  a  moment  more  labored,  and 
Faring  stepped  back. 

"Ah,  I  thought  he  was  gone,"  he  said.  He  looked 
again  towards  the  other  man  and  his  eyes  narrowed. 
The  man  was  crouching  beside  the  hearth.  His  head 
had  fallen  back  against  the  rough  wall,  and  his  arms 
were  dropped  weakly  beside  him,  so  that  the  hands  lay 
palm  upward  on  the  floor.  At  first  Faring  thought  the 
man  was  shamming,  but  with  a  second  look  he  knew 
better.  He  had  seen  men  at  the  end  of  physical  en- 
durance before.  He  pulled  a  flask  out  of  his  pocket. 

"Here,  catch,"  he  called  out,  and  tossed  the  flask 
across  the  intervening  space.  "Take  a  good  pull  at 
that;  you're  done  up." 

The  man  caught  the  thing  clumsily,  and  his  fingers 
shook  and  trembled  over  the  stopper.  He  took  a 
long  swallow  of  the  brandy,  and  another  and  another 
After  a  moment  he  sat  up,  and  a  tinge  of  healthy 
color  grew  in  his  sunken  cheeks.  n 

"  I  was  tired,"  he  said.    "  I  haven't  had  much  sleep. 
265 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

Then  for  a  little  time  there  was  a  silence.  Johnnie, 
stretched  upon  his  broken  door,  slept  restlessly;  the 
man  Kansas  crouched  apathetically  in  his  place,  await- 
ing, it  would  seem,  the  next  move;  and  Faring,  from 
the  centre  of  the  room,  watched  the  two.  The  Rus- 
sian hound  had  gone  back  to  his  former  position  be- 
fore the  fire,  his  muzzle  between  his  out  -  stretched 
paws. 

It  was  Faring  who  spoke  first.  He  laid  the  pistol, 
which  he  had  been  holding,  across  his  knees,  and 
settled  himself  more  comfortably  in  the  broken  chair 
which  he  had  dragged  out  from  a  corner. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "we'll  talk  it  over." 

The  man  by  the  hearth  looked  up.  With  the  return 
of  strength  which  the  stimulant  had  lent  him  he  seemed 
again  to  have  taken  on  his  old  manner.  He  gazed 
across  the  little  room,  still,  unwinking,  without  ex- 
pression. 

"I  was  perhaps  hasty,"  said  Faring,  "in  ordering 
you  away  from  the  place  the  other  evening.  It  might 
have  been  better  to  have  had  our  little  talk  then  in- 
stead of  postponing  it  until  to-night;  but  I  conceived 
that  you  were  insulting  my  wife;  so  I  thrashed  you. 
I  am  glad  I  did  that." 

"  Your  wife?"  said  the  man  by  the  hearth. 

"Yes,"  said  the  other  man,  "my  wife." 

The  man  Kansas  turned  his  head  slightly  and  looked 
at  little  Johnnie. 

"Johnnie's  got  a  wife  somewheres  about,  too,"  he 
said,  without  emotion.  "Maybe  you  know  Johnnie's 
other  name?  It's  Buchanan— Herbert  Buchanan." 

"That,"  said  Faring,  "might  be  difficult  to  prove. 
Herbert  Buchanan  went  away  a  long  time  ago.  His 
body  was  found  and  identified  some  time  after." 

266 


THE    LAST    MOVE    IN    THE   GAME 

"There's  some  things,"  observed  the  man  with  the 
blue  eyes,  "that  don't  have  to  be  proved.  They  raise 
hell  enough  if  you  just  says  them  without  proving. 
Sometimes  people  is  willing  to  pay  a  great  deal  not  to 
have  such  things  talked  about." 

"Yes,"  said  Faring,  "sometimes."  He  leaned  for- 
ward, smiling.  "The  awkward  thing  about  your  posi- 
tion," he  said,  pleasantly,  "is  that  your  weapon  can't 
last  long.  In  a  few  days — a  week — a  month  at  best — 
perhaps  even  to-morrow  —  you'll  be  empty-handed. 
Poor  Buchanan  yonder  won't  see  many  more  days.  I 
have  had  some  experience  with  such  matters,  and  I 
should  think  he  has  a  good  chance  of  dying  before 
morning.  He's  very  low." 

The  other  man  sprang  up  with  something  almost 
like  a  scream. 

"That's  a  lie!"  he  cried.  "That's  a  lie!  He  isn't 
agoing  to  croak.  He's  only  tired  out.  That's  a  lie!" 
He  dropped  upon  his  knees  beside  the  sleeping  little 
tramp  and  felt  for  his  heart  with  one  hand.  The 
Russian  dog  growled  at  him  and  backed  away  snarl- 
ing, but  he  paid  it  no  attention.  He  bent  over  the 
wreck  of  Herbert  Buchanan,  and  his  face  was  drawn 
and  contorted  with  rage  and  fear  and  love — unmis- 
takable love. 

Faring  gave  an  exclamation  of  astonishment.  "  Why, 
I  believe  you're — you're  actually  fond  of  him,"  he  said. 
"I  thought  the  attachment  was  purely — er— business- 
like." 

The  man  looked  up  at  him  malevolently.  "What's 
that  to  you?"  he  said.  "And  he  ain't  agoing  to  die, 
neither.  I've  seen  him  like  this  before.  He's  only 
tired.  Sometimes  he  gets  very  tired,  and  it  lasts  for 
a  week." 

267 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

The  little  tramp  turned  on  his  couch  and  began  to 
cough.  Either  he  was  very  fast  asleep  and  did  not 
waken,  or  else  he  was  sunk  in  a  kind  of  stupor,  for  his 
eyes  remained  closed,  only  that  dreadful  paroxysm 
rent  and  tore  at  his  lungs,  and  his  hands  beside  him 
twisted  and  shook,  and  he  fought  for  the  small  breath 
that  was  left  in  him. 

Faring  sprang  to  his  feet,  for  he  believed  that  the 
man  was  dying. 

"The  flask!"  he  cried  out,  sharply.  "The  flask  I 
gave  you.  Get  it  quickly.  And  some  water.  Look 
sharp,  man!  He's  going!" 

The  man  Kansas  stood  white  and  helpless,  but  Far- 
ing thrust  him  aside  and  snatched  up  the  half -emptied 
flask  from  the  floor  where  it  had  been  dropped. 

"Get  some  water,"  he  said.  "Come,  my  man. 
Come!  Pull  yourself  together!  Have  you  no  water 
in  the  place?" 

The  other  man,  moving  like  one  in  a  daze,  brought 
a  rusty  tin  cup  half  full  of  water.  Faring  poured 
a  few  spoonfuls  of  the  brandy  in  it,  and,  kneeling 
down,  held  the  cup  to  Herbert  Buchanan's  writhing 
lips. 

"Raise  his  head,"  he  said  to  the  other  man,  and 
Kansas,  after  a  moment,  kneeling  on  the  other  side 
of  the  rough  couch,  raised  the  sick  man's  head  in 
his  arms  until  Faring  was  able  to  force  some  of  the 
liquid  between  the  set  teeth. 

The  coughing  died  away  in  slow  gasps,  and  the 
struggle  for  breath  calmed  also  until  the  little  tramp 
once  more  lay  still,  breathing  hoarsely,  but  for  the 
moment,  it  seemed,  well  out  of  danger.  The  two  men 
knelt  on  beside  him  for  a  little  space  watching,  and 
the  dog  whined  uneasily  in  the  background.  The 

268 


THE    LAST    MOVE    IN    THE   GAME 

man  Kansas  rose  to  his  feet  first  and  moved  away 
into  the  centre  of  the  room.     From  there  he  spoke. 

"There  isn't  any  more  danger?"  he  inquired,  in  a 
low  voice.  "He  ain't  agoing  to  do  that  again?  I — 
it  scared  me." 

Faring  shook  his  head  without  looking  up.  He  had 
his  watch  out  and  was  counting  little  Johnnie's  feeble 
pulse. 

"Safe  enough  for  the  present,"  he  said,  "but  I  tell 
you  again  the  chances  are  against  his  living  until  day- 
light. He's  very,  very  low." 

"You're  sure  of  that?"  said  the  man  Kansas  from 
the  centre  of  the  room.  His  back  was  turned. 

"Sure?"  said  Faring.  "Sure?  No;  I'm  sure  of 
nothing.  I'm  no  doctor-man.  But  I've  seen  people 
die  of  this,  and  I  think  Buchanan's  going  fast."  He 
snapped  the  watch  and  rose  to  his  feet  with  a  sigh. 
"Eh,  poor  Buchanan!"  he  said.  "What  an  end! 
I've  small  reason  to  love  him.  He  was  a  cad  and  a 
coward  and  several  other  unpleasant  things.  He  shut 
himself  out  from  any  human  sympathy  when  he  did 
what  he  did ,  but  I  'm  sorry  for  him.  Lord !  what  an  end ! ' ' 

He  moved  forward  a  step,  and  then  stopped  short, 
for  the  man  with  the  blue  eyes  had  turned  and  was 
facing  him  with  his  own  pistol,  which  he  had  dropped 
at  poor  Buchanan's  seizure.  He  gave  a  little,  amused 
laugh. 

"Ah!"  he  said.     "We  change  places!" 

"Yes,"  said  the  man  with  the  blue  eyes,  stolidly. 
"Yes,  we  does.  We  do."  He  backed  away  towards 
the  wall,  leaving  the  centre  of  the  room  free, 
just  trouble  you,"  he  said,  "to  sit  down  again  in  that 
chair  where  you  was  sitting  before.  I  feel  like  you'd 
be  more  comfortable  there  while  we  talk  it  over.  You 

269 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

said  you'd  came  to  talk  it  all  over,  pleasant  -  like. 
Maybe  we  might  just  pass  a  bit  of  line  about  you  and 
the  chair  to  make  you  more  comfortable  yet." 

Faring  watched  the  man  in  silence  for  a  moment, 
and  he  appeared  to  be  considering.  Unquestionably 
the  man  with  the  blue  eyes  held  the  advantage  in  the 
situation.  Unquestionably,  also,  he  would  not  hesi- 
tate to  shoot  and  to  kill  if  pressed  to  it.  Faring  went 
to  the  broken  chair  and  sat  down.  He  did  not  look 
frightened.  He  had  the  air  of  awaiting  the  next  move 
in  an  interesting  game. 

The  other  man  came  from  his  corner  with  a  bit  of 
rope — the  sort  of  rope  which  is  commonly  used  for 
clothes-lines  and  such.  Holding  this  in  one  hand  and 
the  pistol  in  the  other,  he  took  two  turns  round  Far- 
ing's  body  and  arms,  binding  them  fast  to  the  chair- 
back.  He  knotted  the  rope  and  went  back  to  his  old 
place  by  the  hearth. 

"And  now,"  he  said,  "we  will  talk  it  over,  me  and 
you  and  Johnnie — me  and  the  two  husbands!  Ho, 
ho!  Johnnie  he  can't  talk,  but  I  know  what  he'd 
say.  I'll  say  it  for  him.  I'll  say  Johnnie's  part  and 
mine,  Mister  husband  number  two!" 

There  was  an  odd,  cold  ferocity  in  his  tone,  a  slow- 
burning  fury  which  made  Faring  stare,  for  it  was  the 
first  time  he  had  heard  the  expression  of  any  feeling 
at  all  in  the  man's  voice  save  that  one  moment  of 
agony  over  his  stricken  comrade. 

"Johnnie's  agoing  to  die  before  morning,  eh?"  said 
the  man  by  the  fireside.  "And  then  I  sha'n't  have 
nothing  to  hold  over  you.  My  game's  up,  eh?  I'm 
done  for?" 

"Yes,"  said  Faring,  with  a  nod.  "I  expect  you're 
done  for.  What  then?" 

270 


THE  LAST  MOVE  IN  THE  GAME 

"Then,"  said  the  man  with  the  pistol — "then,  by 
God,  Johnnie  don't  go  alone!  Johnnie's  agoing  to 
have  company,  he  is.  No  going  out  into  the  dark 
alone  with  nobody  to  talk  to!  The  two  husbands  is 
agoing  together.  Done  for,  am  I?  Right,  Mister 
husband  number  two!  Right,  says  I.  You're  done 
for,  too.  And  the  lady  with  more  husbands  than  is 
needful,  she'll  have  to  get  on  without  none  at  all. 
We'll  give  her  something  to  mope  for  and  weep  for 
and  worry  about.  Ay,  that  we  will!  Mr.  Gentle- 
man John  Buchanan  and  Mr.  Harry  Faring,  Esquire, 
a-walking  out  into  Kingdom-Come  together!  Ho,  ho! 
A  fine  lark  that  '11  be,  eh?  A  fine  lark!" 

Mr.  Faring  indulged  in  a  gentle  little  laugh.  "I  take 
it,"  said  he,  "that  it  is  your  intention  to  murder  me 
for  the  sake  of  giving  poor  Buchanan  my  society  on 
his  outward  path.  That  would  have  amused  Bu- 
chanan a  few  years  ago.  He's  beyond  seeing  a  joke 
now,  but  when  he  was  in  form  that  would  have 
amused  him.  He  had  a  certain  grim  sense  of  hu- 
mor. You  mean  to  murder  me  ?" 

The  man  with  the  pistol  glowered  across  the  firelit 
room. 

"Yes,  Mister  husband  number  two,"  he  said, 
"that's  just  what  I  mean."  A  sudden  flush  of  anger 
swept  into  his  face.  He  took  a  step  forward  towards 
the  chair  and  the  man  who  sat  there  smiling.  "You 
knocked  me  down,"  he  said,  with  that  same  still  fury 
in  his  tone.  "You  took  me  by  the  throat  and  shook 
me  about  and  beat  me,  didn't  you,  eh  ?  Do  you  know 
what  I'm  agoing  to  do  to  you  to  pay  you  out,  Mister 
too-many-husbands?  I'm  going  to  sit  and  wait  till 
Johnnie's  near  his  end— that  '11  be  towards  morning 
—  they  usually  goes  before  dawn  — and  every  half- 

271 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

hour  I'm  agoing  to  nip  off  a  little  bit  of  you — an  ear 
or  a  nose  or  something-like — with  this  here  gun,  just 
to  pass  the  time  away.  I'm  a  good  shot  with  a  gun. 
When  Johnnie  goes,  then  what's  left  of  you  goes  too. 
A  fine  little  game,  Mr.  Gentleman-that-knocks-people- 
down-and-beats-'em-with-his-fists!  A  fine  little  game, 
eh,  what?" 

"Very  fine,  indeed,"  said  the  man  in  the  chair,  nod- 
ding. "That  also  would  have  amused  Buchanan,  I 
think." 

The  other  looked  up,  frowning.  "You  don't  seem 
like  you  cared  very  much  yourself,"  he  said. 

And  Faring  laughed  again.  "Oh,  I'm  by  way  of 
being  a  philosopher,"  said  he.  "I  take  things  as  they 
come.  A  bit  of  philosophy  saves  you  no  end  of  bother 
at  times." 

The  word  seemed  to  strike  at  some  disused  and  for- 
gotten chord  of  memory  in  the  other  man.  His  face 
altered  and  he  rubbed  his  free  left  hand  across  his 
eyes. 

"I  used  to  know  a  bit  about  philosophy,"  he  said, 
very  slowly.  And  it  seemed  to  Faring  that  even  his 
voice  was  different. 

"Heaps  of  things  I  used  to  know  about,"  he  said, 
with  slow  difficulty.  "Heaps.  Only  I  —  I  forget. 
It's  a  long  time."  He  spoke  a  name,  an  astonishing 
name,  called  up  out  of  what  strange  past  by  the  word 
"philosophy."  "Lotze,"  he  said.  And  after  a  mo- 
ment: "  Scho-pen-penhauer.  Ay,  he's  the  man.  He 
knew.  More  than  all  the  rest  of  'em,  he  knew. 
Why,  Steavens,  he  said — Steavens — "  The  man's 
wandering,  dilated  eyes  caught  upon  Harry  Faring 
bent  forward  in  his  chair,  listening,  eager,  and  he 
pulled  himself  up. 

272 


THE    LAST    MOVE    IN    THE    GAME 

"That's  neither  here  nor  there,"  he  said,  frowning 
again.  "What  was  I  a-saying?" 

"We  were  speaking  of  Schopenhauer,"  said  Faring. 

"  What  Schopenhauer  ?"  he  asked.  "  We  was  a-talk- 
ing  about  what  I'm  going  to  do  to  you." 

Faring  sank  back  in  his  bonds  with  a  little  sigh. 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  said  he.  "I  thought  for  a 
moment  that  you  were  going  to  be  interesting.  It 
was  rather  odd.  Oh,  by -the -way,  since  I  am  to  die 
before  morning,  and  am  therefore  not  likely  to  repeat 
anything  that  I  am  told,  would  you  mind  setting  me 
at  rest  about  two  or  three  matters?  I'm  frankly 
curious  to  know  where  it  was  that  I  saw  you  first.  It 
wasn't  in  Cape  Town.  If  you  hadn't  that  beard  I 
think  I  should  remember  at  once." 

The  other  man  gave  a  little,  mirthless  laugh. 

"No,"  he  said,  "it  weren't  in  Cape  Town.  I'll  tell 
you  that  much."  After  a  moment  he  laughed  again. 
"I  was  meaning  to  shave  it  off,  anyhow,"  he  said. 
"There's  too  many  people  about  here  has  seen  me  with 
it.  It  'd  spoil  my  getting  away.  We'll  have  a  little 
barber-shop  party.  Ho,  ho!  A  little,  quick-change 
turn  like  they  does  in  the  music-halls." 

He  went  to  the  farther  corner  of  the  room,  and  re- 
turned with  a  basin  of  water  and  a  bit  of  soap.  He 
went  again,  and  brought  a  small,  oblong  hand-glass, 
broken  at  one  corner,  and  a  razor.  With  these  imple- 
ments, slowly,  by  dint  of  much  hacking  and  pulling, 
much  bad  language  and  not  a  few  cuts,  he  worried  the 
scrubby  brush  of  black  beard  from  cheek  and  jaw  and 
throat.  When  at  last  he  turned  his  shaven  face,  Faring 
gave  a  quick  exclamation. 

"Oh  yes,"  he  said,  readily,  "I  know  now.  It  was 
the  beard  that  deceived  me,  covering  that  scar.  I 

273 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

saw  you  lurking  about  in  the  shrubbery  near  the 
outer  gates  at  Buchanan  Lodge  on  the  evening  of  the 
night  Buchanan  disappeared.  I  warned  Buchanan 
about  you,  and  he  said  you  had  been  there  once  be- 
fore." Paring's  eyes  brightened  suddenly.  "Wait! 
Wait!"  he  said.  "The  plot  begins  to  deepen,  I  think. 
What  had  you  to  do  with  Buchanan's  disappearance  ? 
I  sha'n't  live  to  tell  anybody  else,  you  know.  What 
had  you  to  do  with  it  ?" 

"I  went  with  him,"  said  the  man  with  the  scarred 
face. 


IX 

LITTLE    JOHNNIE    GOES — BUT    NOT    ALONE 

AjAIN  Mr.  Faring  leaned  forward  in  his  bonds  with 
a  little  exclamation.  "Good!  Good!"  said  he. 
"We  get  on.  Would  you  care  to  tell  me  about  it?" 

The  man  with  the  scarred  face  looked  at  him  silently 
for  some  little  time.  At  last  he  laughed. 

" It's  a  very  queer  tale,"  he  said.  "If  I  was  to  hear 
it  from  somebody  else  I'd  say  he  was  a  liar.  Yes,  I'll 
tell  you,  Mister  husband  number  two!  I'll  tell  you 
all  about  it — a  fine,  long  tale.  Then  you  and  Johnnie 
can  talk  it  over  as  you  goes  away  together.  Ay,  a 
queer,  fine  tale!" 

So  then  he  set  in  to  tell  all  he  knew  about  poor 
Herbert  Buchanan's  disgust  with  life,  and  his  going 
away  in  the  night  to  escape  the  chains  that  bound 
him.  He  told  how  he  himself  had  broken  open  a 
window  of  that  great  chamber  where  the  old  gods  sat, 
and  had  come  upon  the  man  glooming  there  over  his 
woes.  He  told  of  their  strange  conversation  and  of 
Buchanan's  offer  to  him,  and  of  the  man's  bitter,  sav- 
age whim  to  disappear,  with  no  word  or  trace  left  be- 
hind. He  told  of  their  going  out  of  the  window  and 
down  across  the  lawns,  over  the  high  wall  and  thence 
across  fields  and  the  sea-girt  moor. 

"And  so  we  come  to  the  old  stone  quarry  yonder," 
he  said,  "the  one  that  you  can  see  from  the  door  of 

275 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

this  here  hut.  It  was  coining  on  to  rain  then,  and 
there  wasn't  much  light,  just  a  quick  bit  of  moon  now 
and  again  when  the  clouds  opened  a  bit.  Ay,  it  was 
a  nasty  night — a  rotten  bad  night!  Maybe  if  it  had 
been  dry  and  bright  there  wouldn't  ha'  been  any 
trouble.  You  see  the  path  thereabouts  runs  very 
close  to  the  edge  of  the  quarry,  and  it  was  slippery, 
the  path  was.  Well,  he  fell  over  the  edge." 

"Ah!"  said  Faring.     "Quite  of  his  own  accord?" 

"He  fell  over  the  edge,"  said  the  other  man,  stolid- 
ly. "One  minute  he  was  there  in  front  of  me — " 

"Yes,  quite  so,"  said  Faring,  with  a  nod.  "In 
front  of  you,  to  be  sure." 

"There  in  front  of  me,"  said  the  man  with  the 
scarred  face,  "and  the  next  minute  there  wasn't  noth- 
ing there  at  all."  He  paused  a  moment  and  scowled, 
looking  away,  as  if  the  scene  he  brought  up  were  dis- 
tasteful to  him.  "It's  a  nasty  place,"  he  said,  at 
length.  "That  damn  dark  quarry  is  a  nasty  place  o' 
nights.  It's  so  deep  and  black -like,  with  water  in 
the  bottom  of  the  holes,  and  things  a-growing  there. 
There  might  be  anything  down  in  those  deep  places. 
They're  creepy.  It's  a  rotten,  nasty  place."  He 
scowled  again  and  stirred  uneasily.  "  I  expect  it  was 
a  matter  of  two  hours,"  he  said,  slowly,  "before  I 
screwed  up  enough  nerve  to  go  down.  And  even  then 
I  come  back  several  times  on  the  run  before  I  got  to 
the  bottom  and  found  him.  He  was  lying  half  in  a 
pool  of  water,  and  moaning  and  crying  out  most  piti- 
ful. I  expect  the  water  had  brought  him  to  his  senses, 
because  he  was  hurt  very  bad.  His  head  was  hurt — 
he  had  fell  on  that — and  one  leg  was  torn,  and — and 
he  was  hurt  in  the  back,  too.  The  money  was  there 
all  right,  in  his  pocket." 

276 


JOHNNIE    GOES  — BUT    NOT  ALONE 

"Why  didn't  you  take  it  and  leave  him?"  asked 
Faring. 

The  other  man  flushed  darkly,  and  he  seemed  to  be 
laboring  in  honest  embarrassment.  He  looked  up 
with  an  odd  little  deprecatory  glance,  almost  like 
Johnnie's  own. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "It  was  foolish,  but  I— 
he  kept  a-moaning  and  crying  out  so  pitiful  -  like. 
There  was  a  sort  of  cave  near  by,  a  sort  of  cross- 
gallery  where  the  stone  had  been  cut  out  sideways, 
very  deep.  It  was  warm  and  comfortable  in  there, 
and  there  was  weeds  and  little  trees  a-growing  in 
front  of  it,  so  that  even  if  you  was  down  in  the  quarry 
you  might  miss  the  place.  Well,  I  carried  him  in 
there — he  wasn't  never  a  heavy-weight — and  made 
him  as  comfortable  as  I  could,  and  we  lived  there  for 
close  on  six  weeks.  I'd  left  a  bundle  of  things  here  in 
this  very  hut,  and  I  fetched  that.  And  then  I  used 
to  go  out  'nights  and  forage.  I  let  my  beard  grow, 
too.  It  grows  fast,  and  in  a  week  or  ten  days  I  could 
go  about  quite  safe  in  the  daylight  and  buy  things  in 
the  nearest  village.  In  six  weeks  Johnnie  was  able  to 
get  about,  and  then  one  night  we  left  and  went  West 
to  a  place  near  Chicago.  There  was  a  gang  of  hoboes 
living  just  outside  of  a  little  town  there,  and  we  lived 
with  them." 

"Then,  at  last,"  said  Faring,  "it  occurred  to  you 
that  you  might  be  able  to  blackmail  Buchanan's 
friends." 

The  other  man  nodded.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "it  was 
like  that.  I  spent  near  six  months  a-trying  to  teach 
Johnnie  to  remember  that  he  was  Mr.  Buchanan,  but 
it  wasn't  no  use.  His  head  was  hurt  too  bad.  He 
remembered  little  bits,  but  he  thought  he  made  'em 

277 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

up  out  of  his  head.  He  couldn't  ever  believe  they 
was  true.  Then  when  we  got  here,  Johnnie  stumbled 
on  the  lady,  quite  accidental,  while  I  wasn't  with  him, 
and  I  makes  up  my  mind  there  was  money  to  be  had 
out  of  her  because  she  was  married  again,  and  wouldn't 
want  Johnnie  a-turning  up  and  spoiling  things." 

Faring  nodded  an  approving  head.  "  I  should  think," 
he  said,  "that  you  managed  the  thing  as  well  as  it 
could  be  managed.  If  it  failed,  that  was  through  no 
faurt  of  yours.  It  was  Buchanan's  illness  that  did 
for  you." 

The  man  with  the  scarred  face  nodded,  and  he 
turned  his  eyes  upon  the  still  figure  of  the  little  tramp 
who  lay  in  the  waning  fire-light,  sunk  in  his  stupor  of 
exhaustion,  breathing  in  great,  slow  gasps,  shrunken, 
wrecked,  wasted  incredibly,  gray  with  the  ashen  pal- 
lor of  that  death  which  lurked  waiting  for  him  in  the 
shadows  of  the  room. 

What  bitter  thoughts  came  to  him  and  wrung  his 
soul,  what  dark  pictures  marshalled  themselves  be- 
fore his  eyes  and  jibed  at  him  no  one  ever  knew;  but 
Faring,  bound  in  his  broken  chair,  watching  intently, 
saw  the  man's  face  twist  in  a  grief  beyond  utterance, 
and  he  marvelled  with  something  that  was  almost 
respect. 

What  had  there  been  in  that  maddened  little  rem- 
nant of  Herbert  Buchanan  to  call  forth  such  a  love  as 
this — and  in  such  a  man?  Buchanan  strong,  in  his 
prosperity,  master  of  himself,  had  evoked  love  from 
nobody.  There  was  a  kind  of  sour  irony  in  the  thing. 
As  Faring  had  said  in  reference  to  another  grim  jest, 
Buchanan  himself  would  have  appreciated  it. 

The  man  with  the  scarred  face  turned  his  eyes  back 
again  upon  Harry  Faring,  and  slowly  there  began  to 

278 


JOHNNIE    GOES  — BUT  NOT    ALONE 

burn  in  them  that  old  flame  of  sullen  rage,  of  cold, 
despairing  fury.  When  he  spoke,  after  a  little  time, 
his  voice  was  shaking. 

"I  think  we'll  begin  now,  Mister  too-many-hus- 
bands," he  said.  "I  think  we'll  just  get  you  ready 
to  go  with  Johnnie  when  Johnnie  goes." 

He  took  up  the  pistol  from  his  knees,  and,  opening 
its  breech,  spun  the  cylinder  under  his  thumb.  Each 
of  the  five  cartridges  was  in  place  —  a  grim  little 
brazen  circle  of  death.  He  snapped  the  breech  to 
again  and  rose  to  his  feet,  stepping  forward  a  pace 
away  from  the  fire  corner  where  he  had  been. 

"We'll  begin  now,"  he  said,  and  the  hard  eyes 
looked  to  Harry  Faring  with  a  very  bitter  hatred  in 
their  pallid  gleam. 

Faring  took  a  deep  breath.  He  stood  in  very 
grave  peril  now,  and  he  knew  it.  If  the  man  with  the 
pistol  should,  with  this  first  shot,  wound  him  severely 
enough  to  cripple  him,  the  game  was  played  out  and 
done,  and  nothing  within  the  probabilities  could  turn 
his  hand  in  it  to  success. 

He  had  suffered  himself  to  be  bound  in  the  chair 
because  at  the  time  there  had  seemed  no  help  for  it, 
but  he  had  hoped  and  watched  for  some  small  chance 
of  escape  to  offer  itself.  No  chance  had  come,  and 
now  it  appeared  that  the  time  for  such  chances  was 
past. 

That,  however,  is  not  to  say  that  he  gave  up  hope 
or  meant  tamely  to  sit  still  and  be  murdered  without 
trying  very  hard  to  save  his  life,  and  something  which 
was  much  more  worth  while  than  that.  The  chair 
under  him  was  old  and  weak,  and  his  feet  were  not 
bound  to  it.  The  rope  had  been  passed  twice  round 
its  rather  flimsy  back  and  round  his  body,  pinioning 
19  279 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

his  arms  at  the  elbows.  Given  a  minute's  time,  he 
was  very  sure  that  he  could  wrench  and  break  his  way 
free,  though,  of  course,  that  was  out  of  the  question 
while  he  faced  an  able-bodied  man  with  a  loaded 
pistol. 

When  little  Johnnie's  friend  rose  and  came  forward, 
holding  the  weapon  ready  to  fire,  Faring  watched  him 
very  alertly,  and  he  stiffened  his  knees  under  him  and 
planted  his  feet  wider  apart  and  more  firmly  on  the 
floor.  He  meant  to  try  to  dodge  the  first  shot,  and 
then,  before  another  could  be  fired,  leap  forward, 
bound  as  he  was,  and  throw  himself  upon  his  assailant. 

The  scheme  was  not  a  wholly  impracticable  one. 
The  distance  between  the  two  men  was  short,  and 
Faring  might  quite  possibly  have  succeeded,  with  an 
unexpected  dash,  in  throwing  the  other  man  to  the 
floor  and  then  in  wrenching  himself  free  of  the  chair 
before  the  other  had  recovered.  But,  as  it  happened, 
the  situation  suddenly  passed  into  other  hands. 

The  man  Kansas,  raising  his  weapon  to  fire,  saw 
Faring's  eyes  shift  all  at  once  from  his  and  look  past 
him,  widening  swiftly.  Faring  said,  in  a  sharp  whisper : 

"Look!    Look,  behind!" 

It  was  no  trick.  It  was  honest.  Kansas  whirled 
on  his  feet,  and,  at  what  he  saw,  gave  a  great,  sob- 
bing cry. 

Herbert  Buchanan  sat  straight  up  on  his  couch,  and 
one  of  his  hands  went  out  impotently  beating  the  air. 

"I  didn't  shoot  you  when — when  I  could  have!"  he 
said,  staring  wide-eyed  into  the  shadows  where  the 
man  Kansas  had  hidden  himself. 

The  voice  was  the  ghost  of  a  voice,  a  rattle,  a  whist- 
ling gasp,  but  it  was  Buchanan's  voice,  not  little  John- 
nie's. He  coughed  once.  Then  again  a  second  time 

280 


JOHNNIE    GOES  — BUT    NOT  ALONE 

— a  wet,  horrible  cough.  Blood  came  from  his  lips, 
and,  as  he  sat,  that  dreadful  hand  sawing  at  the  air, 
he  swayed  back  and  forth  as  if  he  would  fall. 

At  his  master's  first  movement  the  Russian  dog  had 
turned  quickly,  and,  crouching  by  the  side  of  the 
couch,  had  thrust  an  eager,  whining  head  upon  the 
still  limbs.  The  man  Kansas  gave  a  great  cry  and 
leaped  forward. 

"Johnnie!"  he  screamed.  "Johnnie!  Johnnie!"  in 
a  high  voice  like  a  woman's,  and  made  as  if  he  would 
throw  himself  upon  that  swaying  body. 

But  as  he  leaped,  the  Russian  dog,  its  hair  bris- 
tling, its  teeth  bared,  turned  upon  him  with  a  roar. 
Somehow  the  man  got  his  balance  and  sprang  back, 
shouting  out: 

"Down,  you  beast!     Down!     Get  out!" 

The  dog  was  fairly  at  his  throat  —  it  must  have 
thought  that  in  that  forward  lunge  of  his  he  was 
trying  to  strike  the  man  on  the  couch — and  he  whipped 
up  the  pistol  and  fired  twice.  The  first  bullet  missed, 
the  second  tore  across  the  animal's  shoulder  without 
in  the  least  checking  its  impetus.  Then  man  and  dog 
went  down  together.  For  a  moment  or  two  there 
was  a  very  horrible  and  sickening  sound  of  snarls 
and  cries,  of  groans,  and  a  pounding,  thumping  noise. 
Then  no  more. 


X 

THE    LAST   WORD 

FOLLOWED  in  the  little  hut  a  space  of  silence. 
The  fire  burned  low  on  the  hearth,  but  its  light 
still  filled  the  centre  of  the  room  with  a  red,  pulsing 
radiance  and  threw  monstrous  shadows  over  the  un- 
even floor  from  the  trestle  which  stood  there  and  from 
that  which  lay  still  upon  the  trestle — still  as  death. 
Indeed,  everything  in  the  place  was  still  as  death:  the 
fire  burned  without  sound,  little  Johnnie  on  his  rude 
couch  was  silent,  and  there  was  silence  in  those  gloomy 
shadows  at  one  side  of  the  hearth.  Even  the  motion- 
less figure  huddled  grotesquely  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor  was  still ;  for  Faring,  in  that  swift  instant  when 
the  Borzoi  leaped  at  its  enemy's  throat,  had,  not 
pausing  to  take  thought,  sprang  up  also,  perhaps  with 
some  vague  idea  of  checking  the  beast,  the  chair  had 
tripped  his  cramped  legs,  and  he  had  pitched  forward 
upon  his  face,  rolled  half  over,  and  then  lain  still. 
There  was  something  awful  in  the  swiftness  with 
which  silence  had  smitten  the  place.  It  was  like  the 
passing  of  the  sudden  wind  of  death. 

But  after  a  long  time  the  avenger,  the  great  Rus- 
sian dog — such  quaint  and  grotesque  agents  does  Fate 
sometimes  use  to  gain  her  hidden  ends — crept  out 
from  those  gloomy  shadows  beyond  the  hearth.  It 
moved  slinking,  furtive-eyed,  belly  to  the  ground  like 

282 


THE    LAST   WORD 

a  wolf,  and  red,  wolfish  lights  glanced  in  its  eyes  such 
as  never  before  had  dwelt  there.  A  blacker  red 
stained  its  muzzle  and  hung  clotted  upon  its  hairy 
jowl. 

It  went  to  the  man  who  lay  upon  the  floor,  bound 
still  to  the  broken  chair,  and,  crouching,  sniffed  at  his 
white  face.  Faring  did  not  stir,  and  the  dog  gave  an 
anxious,  uneasy  whine  and  set  to  licking  its  master's 
cheeks.  After  a  little,  Faring  came  dimly  to  his 
senses.  Once,  in  Africa,  some  years  before  this  time, 
his  little  exploring  column  had  been  attacked  by  a 
native  force  and  had  lost  several  men.  Faring  him- 
self had  fought  for  hours  stretched  on  the  ground  be- 
hind a  bulwark  composed  of  two  dead  porters  who 
had  been  almost  hacked  to  pieces.  In  this  moment 
of  awakening  he  thought  that  he  was  back  in  that 
day,  stretched,  rifle  at  shoulder,  behind  the  two  dead 
porters.  It  was  a  peculiar,  acrid,  never-to-be-forgotten 
scent  in  his  nostrils  which  made  the  illusion. 

In  another  moment  he  realized  that  the  dog  was 
whining  beside  him  and  licking  his  face.  Then  full 
recollection  came  to  him,  and  he  drove  the  beast  away 
with  sobbing  curses.  He  struggled  to  his  knees,  that 
chair  an  incubus  bound  upon  him.  His  head  swam 
giddily  and  he  was  very  weak,  for  his  fall  had  been  a 
heavy  one. 

The  dog  had  drawn  a  little  apart  and  crouched  upon 
the  floor,  its  head  down,  its  tail  wagging  ingratiatingly. 
The  man  remembered,  and  his  face  twisted  in  a  sudden 
spasm.  For  a  moment  he  was  swept  by  an  acute 
nausea. 

He  knelt  there  a  long  time  faint  and  ill,  waiting  f< 
strength  to  come  to  him.     At  last  he  made  a  great 
effort,  got  to  his  feet,  and  so  dropped  back  again  into 

283 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

the  chair  as  he  had  first  sat.  He  was  far  from  pos- 
sessing the  strength  to  free  himself.  At  the  move- 
ment the  Russian  dog  rose  again  and  came  forward 
fawning  at  its  master's  feet.  Again  Faring  drove  the 
beast  away  with  heel  and  voice.  He  saw  its  black- 
ened, horribly  stained  jowl,  and  another  wave  of  nau- 
sea swept  him.  In  his  weakness  he  felt  that  he  must 
scream  like  a  woman  if  the  creature  should  touch 
him. 

Thereafter,  because  the  pain  in  his  head  was  very 
great,  he  dropped  into  a  half  swoon  and  hung  still  in 
his  bonds,  his  head  on  his  breast.  The  dog  came  un- 
rebuked  to  his  knees  and  looked  up  whining.  It 
licked  his  hand,  but  he  did  not  stir.  Then  it  began 
a  restless,  uneasy  tour  of  the  little  room.  Once  it 
sniffed  at  that  low  trestle  whereon  little  Johnnie  lay 
so  quiet  and  silent,  but  backed  away  again  growling. 
Once  it  looked  into  those  gloomy  shadows  beyond, 
and  licked  its  chaps,  as  it  were  reminiscently.  It 
seemed  that  it  could  not  be  still.  At  last  it  went  to 
the  door  and  whined.  The  lock  was  long  since  rusted 
into  disuse,  and  the  door  remained  closed  only  by  its 
weight.  The  dog  pushed  at  it  with  its  nose  and 
tugged  with  a  forepaw  at  the  edge.  At  last  it  got  it 
open.  Once  more  it  came  back  to  where  Faring  sat 
drooping  in  his  chair,  and  licked  his  hand.  Still  he 
did  not  stir.  The  dog  turned  away  with  a  little 
whine  and  slipped  out  of  the  door  into  the  darkness. 
There  in  the  dripping  night  it  set  its  head  towards 
home,  a  mile  across  the  hills,  and  it  ran  as  if  it  were 
in  dire  terror. 

Followed  in  the  little  hut  another  space  of  silence 
wherein  nothing  stirred  or  spoke  and  the  fire  burned 
lower.  Faring  came,  after  a  long  time,  once  more  to 

284 


THE    LAST    WORD 

his  senses,  very  slowly,  through  a  borderland  of 
strange  dreams  and  disordered  fancies.  He  opened 
his  eyes  and  the  fire  waned  before  him;  little  Johnnie 
on  his  pallet  lay  straight  and  motionless.  He  must 
be  better  (or  worse),  Faring  thought,  for  there  was  no 
more  stertorous  breathing.  The  dog  was  nowhere  in 
sight.  He  whistled  faintly  to  it  and  at  last  called 
out,  but  it  did  not  come.  Then  he  felt  a  draught  of 
cool  air  at  the  back  of  his  head,  and  knew  that  the 
animal  must  somehow  have  got  the  door  open  and  fled 
away. 

He  tried  the  strength  of  his  arms,  straining  at  the 
rope  which  bound  them,  but  they  were  too  weak,  and 
he  sat  still  again,  waiting.  He  saw  that  the  fire  had 
sunk  to  red  embers  so  that  the  circle  of  light  was 
slowly  closing  in  upon  the  hearth.  It  was  already 
much  dimmer,  and  he  stared  at  it  with  a  sort  of  child- 
like terror.  Horror  unspeakable  dwelt  in  those  black 
shadows  beyond,  and  he  dreaded  being  left  in  the 
dark  with  it. 

It  was  odd — but  withal  natural  enough — that  the 
wider  significance  of  the  tragedy,  the  freedom  and 
safety  it  guaranteed,  had  not  yet  penetrated  to  his 
dazed  brain.  That  stunned  head  of  his  dwelt  still 
among  grisly  horrors  and  saw  nothing  beyond. 

He  stared  at  the  reddening,  dying  fire,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  that  interminable  hours  dragged  by.  Possibly, 
after  the  final  return  of  consciousness,  a  scant  half- 
hour  passed.  Then  he  heard  a  voice  from  the  night 
without.  He  stiffened  in  his  chair  and  his  mind  leaped 
to  action  as  a  roused  soldier  leaps  to  battle. 

Who  could  be  abroad  upon  the  moor  on  such  a 
night  ?  He  thought  of  the  open  door  behind  him  and 
the  bar  of  light  it  must  be  casting  forth  upon  the 

285 


BUCHANAN'S   WIFE 

darkness.  He  had  been  a  fool  not  to  have  struggled 
somehow  across  the  room  and  closed  it.  He  tasted 
the  swift  bitterness  of  imminent  peril  —  the  peril  of 
discovery  at  last,  and  after  all  his  pains,  all  Betty's 
struggles  to  keep  the  thing  secret.  He  even  began  a 
desperate  planning — as  desperate  as  the  woman's  had 
been  in  her  darkest  hour — of  what  he  should  say  and 
do,  what  explanation  he  should  make,  when  those 
who  were  coming  through  the  night  had  entered  that 
place  of  death  and  horror. 

Then  the  voice  without  spoke  close  to  the  open 
door,  and  Faring  dropped  weakly  back  in  his  bonds 
with  a  breath  that  was  almost  a  sob.  The  voice  said: 

"Na,  na.  Ye  maunna  gang  in.  Bide  ye  heer  a 
wee  till  I  hae  keekit!" 

It  was  old  McNaughton,  the  gardener.  He  came 
into  the  room  tiptoeing,  and  Faring  heard  his  tongue 
clack  in  his  mouth  as  he  saw  that  still  place  where 
death  was.  Faring  turned  his  head,  and  the  man 
gave  a  sudden  gasp,  then  came  quickly  to  him. 

"Cut  these  ropes,"  said  Faring.  "Be  quick.  Cut 
me  free.  Who  is  with  you  out  there?  Whom  were 
you  speaking  to  ?  Betty!  Betty!" 

The  woman  ran  to  him  with  a  soft  rush  of  draperies 
and  dropped  on  her  knees  beside  the  chair.  She 
caught  him  by  the  shoulders,  staring  whitely  into  his 
face. 

"You're  not  hurt,  Harry?"  she  cried.  "There's 
nothing  the  matter?  You're  not  hurt?" 

The  old  Scotsman  had  got  out  his  clasp-knife  and 
with  it  hacked  his  master's  bonds  in  two.  Faring's 
released  arms  dropped  stiffly  beside  him,  and  he 
moved  them  back  and  forth,  bending  the  elbows. 
His  eyes  did  not  stir  from  his  wife's  eyes. 

286 


7 


THE  WOMAN   .      .  DROPPED  ON  HER  KNEES  BESIDE  THE  CHAIR1 


THE    LAST    WORD 

"I'm  all  right,"  he  said.  " I  had  a  nasty  fall  and  it 
stunned  me.  I'm  all  right." 

For  some  obscure  reason  they  both  spoke  in  whis- 
pers. 

"The  dog  came,"  she  said.  "It  came  scratching 
and  whining  at  McNaughton's  hut  and  waked  him. 
Its  muzzle  and  chaps"  —  she  hid  her  face  —  "they 
were  stained.  McNaughton  came  under  my  window. 
There  was  a  light,  because  I  wasn't  asleep.  I  haven't 
slept  since  you  went  away.  He  called  and  threw 
gravel,  and  I  heard  him.  Then  we  came,  McNaughton 
and  I.  He  knows,  Harry.  He  knows  all  about 
everything.  We  came  away  without  being  seen  or 
heard.  The  dog  led  us.  It  wouldn't  come  in  here. 
It's  waiting  out  in  the  dark  now.  I  think  it  is  a  bit 
mad.  Harry,  Harry!  I  was  frightened  so!  I  didn't 
know  what  might  have  happened.  These  last  days 
have  been —  I  know  what  damned  people  suffer, 
Harry.  I  know  now.  And  that  dog's  dreadful  stained 
mouth.  What  is  it  ?  What  has  he  done  ?  What  has 
happened?" 

Faring  put  her  gently  away  from  him  and  rose  to 
his  feet.  He  swayed  for  a  moment,  dizzily.  Beatrix 
rose  also,  watching  him. 

"Go  to  the  door,  Betty,"  he  said,  "and  wait  for  us 
there.  Do  not  look."  He  turned  her  towards  the 
door,  but  she  would  not  go. 

"No,  Harry,  no!"  said  she.  "I  must  stay.  Don't 
try  to  spare  me  anything.  Whatever  it  is  that  has 
been  done  to-night  has  come  of  me  and  of  what  I  did. 
Don't  try  to  spare  me." 

Faring  motioned  to  the  old  Scots  gardener,  who  had 
a  lantern  slung  on  his  arm,  and  they  crossed  the  room 
to  the  hearth. 

287 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

"Here  first,"  said  he,  and,  taking  the  lantern,  held 
it  down  into  those  gloomy  shadows  where  the  man 
Kansas  had  fallen.  The  Scotsman  bent  beside  him, 
but  at  the  sight  of  the  huddled  thing  there  straight- 
ened himself  suddenly  with  a  gasping  cry  in  strange 
words.  The  words  were  not  English,  nor  McNaugh- 
ton's  version  of  that  tongue,  so  they  must  have  been 
Gaelic.  He  said  them  over  again  in  a  shaking,  whis- 
pering voice. 

"It  was  the  dog,"  Faring  explained,  briefly.  "I 
was  bound  in  the  chair  yonder  and  could  not  pre- 
vent it." 

They  turned  to  the  low  trestle  before  the  fire  where 
little  Johnnie  lay  so  straight  and  still.  Beatrix  stood 
there,  and,  as  Faring  turned,  lifted  her  face  to  him. 
The  face  was  very  white  and  the  eyes  burned  from  it 
strangely. 

"Dead!"  her  lips  said,  without  sound.  "He  is 
dead." 

Faring  nodded.  " I  thought  so,"  said  he.  "He  was 
dying  some  hours  ago."  He  looked  down  very  grave- 
ly and  compassionately  upon  the  wreck  which  living 
had  been  Herbert  Buchanan,  and  the  dead  man's 
wizened  face  stared  back  at  him  blankly,  with  dull, 
opaque  eyes,  the  lips  drawn  into  a  sort  of  wry,  sour 
grin.  A  profound  pity  stirred  in  him  for  this  poor 
creature  who  had  lived  unloving  and  unloved  and  had 
died  so  sordidly.  He  thought  of  the  havoc  which  had 
everywhere  followed  the  man's  life  and  had  touched 
every  one  who  had  had  anything  to  do  with  it.  It 
seemed  as  if  something  evil  and  poisonous  must  have 
breathed  from  him,  some  malignant  curse.  Faring 
found  himself  wondering  if  the  curse  was  dead  with 

288 


THE    LAST    WORD 

the  man  who  bore  it.  Surely  it  must  be  so,  he  said  to 
himself.  Enough  suffering  had  been  borne  while  Bu- 
chanan lived.  Surely  he  could  leave  no  heritage  of  ill 
behind  him. 

But  there  was  one  last,  poignant  note  in  the  night's 
miserable  tragedy  which  had  up  to  this  moment  es- 
caped his  knowledge.  Something  about  the  still 
figure  which  lay  stretched  on  its  pallet  caught  his 
eye,  and  he  bent  forward  with  a  sudden  exclamation. 

"Look!     Look!"  he  cried  out.     "Look  there!" 

Across  the  dead  man's  neck  a  strange  little  groove 
had  been  torn,  and  below,  on  the  sunken  chest,  where 
the  shirt  was  partly  pulled  away,  a  bluish  round  spot 
lay  plain  to  view.  Grimly  enough,  the  only  man  in 
the  world  who  loved  Buchanan  had  slain  him.  Those 
two  bullets  fired  desperately  at  the  leaping  hound 
had  gone  beyond  and  found  their  prey.  Buchanan 
had  not  died  of  his  malady.  His  friend  had  killed 
him. 

Beatrix  began  a  dry,  overwrought  sobbing.  Faring 
slipped  an  arm  about  her  shoulders  and  led  her  towards 
the  door.  But  near  it  he  turned  back  for  a  mo- 
ment. 

"Only  we  three,"  he  said,  looking  at  the  old  Scots- 
man— "only  we  three  living  souls  know  the  truth  of 
this  matter.  Buchanan  is  dead,  and  the  other  who 
knew  is  dead  also.  We  three  remain.  The  secret  is 
safe  with  us,  I  think."  He  spoke  with  a  shade  of 
question  in  his  tone. 

The  old  man  looked  at  him  without  expression. 

"I  dinna  ken  just  what  yir  meanin'  maybe,  sir-r," 
he  said,  stolidly.  "It  may  be  the  leddy  has  tell't  me 
summat,  but  I  hae  nae  recollection.  Whiles,  I  hae 
nae  memory  at  a'." 

289 


BUCHANAN'S    WIFE 

Faring  gave  a  brief  smile. 

"Thank  you,  McNaughton,"  said  he.  "The  secret 
is  safe,  I  see.  I  need  not  have  spoken.  I  must  take 
Mrs.  Faring  home  now.  Then  I  shall  come  back  and 
we  will  consider  about  what  is  to  be  done  here.  Would 
you  be  willing  to  wait  for  me?" 

"Ay,"  said  the  old  man.  "I'll  bide.  Dinna  fash 
yersel'." 

Faring  and  Beatrix  went  out  and  began  their  walk 
across  the  moor  and  up  the  slow  hill-slope  which  led 
towards  home. 

The  night  had  passed  and  the  first  faint  light  of 
dawn  was  abroad.  It  smelled  of  the  coming  day. 
The  turf  was  damp  from  the  rain,  but  the  clouds  had 
driven  over  before  a  fresh  west  wind  and  the  sky  was 
clear  again. 

"And  so,  Betty,"  said  the  man,  "we're  safe  at  last 
— free.  The  two  who  threatened  us  are  dead.  Mc- 
Naughton has  forgotten.  There's  nobody  now  who 
knows." 

She  raised  her  face  to  him  and  kissed  him.  Then 
for  a  little  she  walked  on  in  silence. 

"We  know,  Harry,"  she  said,  at  last.  "We  know. 
We  shall  always  know  and  never  forget." 

Faring  shook  his  head.  He  stopped  in  his  walk  and 
took  her  in  his  arms,  turning  her  about  so  that  he 
looked  into  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "we  are  young,  and  life  is 
long,  and  the  world  is  a  very  beautiful  place — almost 
as  beautiful  as  you  are.  We  shall  forget.  Look  at 
the  sky,  Betty.  The  night's  going  out  of  it  and  the 
day  is  coming.  'Joy  cometh  of  a  morning.'  It  says 
so  somewhere,  and  I  know  it  is  true.  I  tell  you  we 
shall  forget!" 

290 


THE    LAST    WORD 

She  crept  closer  into  his  arms,  looking  up  to  him 
with  pleading  eyes. 

"Do  you  think  we  shall,  Harry  ?"  she  begged.  " Oh, 
I  want  to — I  want  to.  Do  you  think  we  shall?" 


THE    END 


ucsou 


Ill  I 

000  131  12,      * 


